


but like a star in the night

by sammyspreadyourwings



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blow Jobs, Boundaries, Churches & Cathedrals, Coercion, Denial of Feelings, Depression, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illegal Activities, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Breakdown, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overdosing, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Prostitution, Self-Esteem Issues, Semi-Public Sex, Sex while Under the Influence, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Power Dynamics, Unreliable Narrator, Unsafe Sex, Vomiting, ask to tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:29:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 67,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27084145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammyspreadyourwings/pseuds/sammyspreadyourwings
Summary: Brian had promised himself that he wouldn’t be that desperate again, late-season expenses, and the college cutting his position made him fall on hard times. It had been the fastest way to keep from ending up on the streets mid-November. Now it’s late February and he knows the florist closes at five and the club opens at eleven and the police don’t patrol until half-past ten.He stares at the crumpled bills on the trash can lid as his jeans stick to his knees from the melted snow and shrugs as he pockets them. His watch beeps once and he wonders if he has enough time to make rent and get his pantry stocked this week.It isn't until his clients start turning into the wrong sort that he realizes the water might be above his head.
Relationships: John Deacon/Brian May/Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor
Comments: 85
Kudos: 71





	1. what did i do wrong last night (trouble comes knocking on my door)

**Author's Note:**

> My baby is published, I've really enjoyed writing this!
> 
> So yea, please be mindful of the tags, if there is something else to tag, please let me know! Not everything for the story is tagged yet, but enough to kind of understand what in the world is going on.
> 
> I'm really excited too, because this is completely finished, which means finally a reliable stream of content from me!
> 
> I'm ready to see what you all think! Onwards!

“Once more,” he says.

His knuckles blend in with the porcelain of the sink. It keeps them from shaking. Brian raises his eyes from the faucet and stares at himself. Dark circles highlight tiny blemishes on his skin, even with the light concealer coat to keep himself from looking as exhausted as he is. The skin around his nose has started to finally turn pale again. He licks his lips, but the skin absorbs the moisture, they are red and painful, splitting every time he smiles.

Good thing he doesn’t have a lot to smile about recently.

Brian tilts his head; he still looks like Brian May. Tired and mildly ill. Things people can explain away with what has happened in his life recently. Not that he thinks that he should look different, but he doesn’t feel like Brian May.

He looks down at his watch. A fancy brand with roman numerals but a faux leather band. More than he would be able to easily spend but something accepted as a rare luxury.

“Shit.”

Quickly he finishes buttoning his shirt and runs his hand through his hair to tame it. He rushes out of his chilly flat into the slightly colder air of late winter. Dread replaces his numb surprise as he checks for anyone he might know as he winds his muffler around his face, tucking the ends into his coat.

The London streets are lonely this time of night. Yellow light from streetlamps glows against poorly shoveled snow it does nothing to stop the darkness. Brian spends an extra few seconds under them by shortening his stride. He used to love the night.

Brian doesn’t look forward, having memorized the path from his flat to the nearest tube station. He keeps his head down and only occasionally looks back to the slightly skewed tracks he has made in the slush.

The train is running on time, it usually does by the time it gets to the last four or five. He grabs onto the handle and leans back against the pole. Brian observes his fellow travelers with bored interest. A teenager watches a young woman’s purse with nervous eyes. Two businessmen sit across from each other: one’s head bobbles and smacks against the window and the other curses at pages in a file folder.

Brian rolls his shoulders. What is he to these people? How do they think of him? Just a young man? The man with the too curly hair? Maybe they know what he has become, maybe they can see his scarlet letter.

Probably not, he decides after a second. They wouldn’t care. What letter would he even be given?

The train slows before coming to a stop. With practiced ease, the young woman gathers her things, and Brian notices a hospital badge hanging out of her purse. The teenager attempts to follow her. Brian presses his lips together, but the sleeping businessman grabs the teenager by the sleeve of his coat.

“Weren’t you getting off at the next stop, son?”

The teenager starts to stammer vowels out, but the doors chime, and the woman vanishes into the station. Brian listens as the next stop is announced.

Whatever these people are thinking of him is wrong, it has to be, he is not the young - young indicating naïve and innocent - man. He thought the businessman was sleeping and that the teenager was too nervous to do anything. The businessman hadn’t been sleeping and the teenager was going to do it, what he thought was wrong.

Nothing happens for the next three stops. Brian isn’t sure that time is moving at all save for the seconds optimistically ticking by on his watch. They do lose the teen at the next stop, scowling at the “sleeping” businessman as he shoves his way through the doors.

The stop that connects to a ritzy neighborhood is where the cursing businessman who has stopped his cursing and is now walking in a daze gets off.

The third stop, the end of the line, is where he and the sleeping businessman exit. He pauses in a desperate hope that the businessman is going to grab him by the sleeve.

It doesn’t happen, so Brian trudges back out into the snow. The businessman has gone from his life. There are a few charities and women’s centers in the area. Maybe he is a philanthropist with a gift for healing troubled teens.

Brian hesitates, where can a starving artist go?

He doesn’t need help. This is all his choice. Some of the snowmelt splashes and absorbs into his wool socks and he takes in a deep breath. Being sad isn’t sexy. Not being sexy will make sure he is out of his house by mid next week.

The bass from one of the clubs tickles his ears. There is the slight musk of pot from the alley, and he pauses at the entrance. But that is not his alley and being high gets him several pounds lighter and ounces more regret in the morning.

Being high after gets him questions he can’t afford.

Brian slips into the alley, pushing his hands in his pockets.

The Dealer is familiar to him now. The slight scent of garbage and skunkweed waft off him in equal power. He isn’t alone either, there are two older teens, optimistically twenty leaning against a pile of boxes and looking blissed.

“Give me a squeeze and I’ll give you a hit, Bunny.”

 _Bunny_. Brian swallows back his scowl at the name, the one the people around here took to calling him on account of him looking like a hare cornered by foxes. At least people don’t ask after his real name anymore. He looks around, there is a needle on the ground and while he smells pot, he doesn’t see the flicker of embers from a blunt. Marijuana mellows him out to the point of being a “useless fuck.”

Maybe he wants to spend his night sober after all.

“Hey bunny boy,” a female voice calls.

Brian smiles and tilts his head in greeting.

It is Peaches. Another like him, she seems more interested in chasing smoke rings from her cigarettes than turning tricks tonight. Brian likes Peaches, she speaks rough French and saves for two things: a plane ticket to America and a brand-new saxophone.

The Dealer instead pulls out a tiny baggy filled with white powder. Brian would not go so far to call himself a prude, especially not these days, but coke has always been something to be wary of. Something that big names did because they had the money to spare.

“Step into my office,” the Dealer grins.

The “office” is the bathroom on the side of the club that can be accessed from the outside alley and through a small hallway, but Brian follows him. This isn’t the first time he has tried it, but each time prior he had been with people he trusted.

Each time after it is offered it is harder to say no.

He watches the Dealer make a show of wiping the counter off to clean it before sprinkling the powder into three thin lines. The last time this bathroom had been cleaned was probably when the building changed management. Brian grimaces before leaning down and closing one nostril.

The Dealer steps closer, he can barely make out the motion in the mirror, but he snorts the line. Brian tries to clear his nose, the powder burning before he flutters his eyes trying to clear the tears away. There is a quick touch on his spine, and then a large hand cups his arse. He feels the hand massage the flesh as he sucks in the last two lines. A thumb slips below his waistband.

Brian is spun around, his head continuing to spin even as he is pressed against the counter. He closes his eyes while his mouth is assaulted. The Dealer licks into his lips, leaving his foul taste stuck to Brian’s tongue before pulling away.

“ _Pleasure_ doing business with you, next time bring cash and I’ll give you the good stuff.”

He gets a swat on his arse as he exits. Brian coughs once, entering the dry air of the winter. There is a buzzing in his head and his chest. His hands start to shake, but he doesn’t stop as he continues walking to where he knows he is supposed to be.

His alley is only a few minutes away and like the past few weeks there will be a Towncar waiting for him. Brian staggers in the snow, giggling at his own clumsiness. He feels like he could run a hundred miles! Could he turn away and run?

Then he snorts at his silliness, of course, he could.

But he crosses the street anyway.

“Get in,” cigarette smoke obscures the driver’s face as he leans against the door. He has been waiting for a while, there are at least six butts on the ground.

Brian gets in the car.

Another man sits prim and proper in the backseat. Short brown hair and shades over his eyes make him unmemorable — although Brian doesn’t think he will ever forget his face —the shoes and suit that cost a well-produced album always make Brian want to talk to him.

Then he asks himself when he became willfully stupid and when he started missing the back-alley blow jobs that were as likely to leave him bruised as paid.

This was supposed to be safe. The _deal_ is thirty percent from the top, but Brian imagines that if he sat down and did the numbers he would have lost more than that. Not that he is going to call his Handler on skimming from his pay. Lucky nights left him with extra for the bank.

He watches the man gesture to the seat in front of him and Brian climbs over before and sinks his knees. They both know how this works.

“Mm, you’ll let them do what they want to you tonight?”

Brian hums distractedly. His heart hammering in his chest even as he forces his emotions below the haze of the high. He undoes the button and zipper before palming the underwear. At least the man is half-hard, so he won’t have to spend much time working with him.

It takes only a few minutes before he feels the heat of an erection and he pulls the underwear down that is stopping him from his goal. Brian looks up and with a nod and a firm hand on the back of his head, his lips wrap around the tip.

“Always happy to sample you first,” his handler says.

Brian doesn’t care.

* * *

It isn’t long after he is wiping away the spittle from his mouth that he gets his first client. Brian likes to imagine this one is a lawyer. Too well dressed for this part of town and he always makes sure that Brian does not see his face. He is bouncing on his toes, the coke fully in his head now.

A wad of bills gets shoved into his pockets while he gets spun around into the wall. Brian wonders, not for the first time if working out of a hotel would be worth it. It is a bit cold to have his trousers around his legs and his thin shirt does nothing against the roughness of the bricks.

He hears the click of a belt; the man spends barely a second to spit on his hand and rub his cock. This is why he showers before, rarely do his clients spend the time prepping him. Not when the patrol cars could be by at any moment.

Although his handler is supposed to take care of the cops.

“This is why you’re my favorite whore, quiet, knows his place, straight to business.”

Brian bites into his lips, only now remembering that they are chapped as hands wrap around his hips. The hands are big, but they aren’t the calloused hands from his fantasies.

People pay to fuck him. He thinks that must mean he is worth something. Even if his cheek scraps against the brick and aggravates the still tender skin around his nose. Brian rocks in time which each thrust, tightening when appropriate, but he doesn’t feel aroused by it.

His cock is hard, but he knows that it is the drug. He closes his eyes.

The man comes in him. It shocks Brian into opening his eyes, lulled into a hazy trance of not caring what is being done to his body and too out of his head to hold onto any thoughts. He feels the man pull out and toss a few more bills on the boxes that keep away curious eyes.

Brian picks them up and shoves them into the pocket with the rest of his money so far and slips into the back door of the florist which doesn’t properly lock, and the owner hasn’t bothered with installing any security.

He cleans himself and then throws up into the toilet.

* * *

The theoretical lawyer is not the only client of the night. Just the only one that he has had enough times to notice. His buzz wears off too quick and the disgust in himself builds quicker. His pants are starting to freeze at the knees again. Brian bends one and then the other spinning the button of his shirt in his fingers.

There are scratches on his chest and they ache with the cold air. Besides the rawness on his face from where he had been pressed into the brick, he knows that there are no marks that anyone would be able to mistake as a bartending accident.

“It’s my daddy’s money,” he hears a woman giggle, “c’mon that bar was a bust.”

“So you want to hire someone?” a second woman says.

Brian doesn’t hear the woman’s response, but he moves to the front of his alley. His arse is hurting but his dick is still half hard in his pants, having only been an afterthought for most of his clients.

“See,” the blonde woman winks, “much better than any o’ the blokes at the bar.”  
The brunette looks at him and flushes before looking away.

He offers a tiny smile, making sure to show his canines.

“Looking for a good time, ladies?”

“That depends,” the blonde saunters up to him, swaying her hips, “you offering?”

They both wear low cut dresses with their breasts pushed up high. Brian hopes he can get them because they’ll be his fourth payment of the night, which means it has been a Very Good night.

“For the right price,” Brian says.

The woman pulls a roll of money from somewhere – Brian thinks there might be a hidden pocket in her dress – and tucks it into the pocket of his ruined shirt. He pulls it out and his eyes widen at the amount.

“That’ll do,” he tucks it back in, “have a place?”

“I do.”

Brian links his arms in both of the girls’. The blonde’s friend looks away before pulling her arm back. He doesn’t particularly care, but he does make sure to catch eyes with his Handler’s Towncar as he passes it. They don’t need to have another misunderstanding, Brian isn’t going to skip out on him, his Handler had promised something worse than the single slap he had gotten the first time.

He makes sure to seem interested in the women as they move to the girls’ hotel room, they might want to tip him even better than they are paying him for his good manners after all.

* * *

The train is empty. It is just before rush hour and Brian is happy to have some space to himself. His pay burns in his pocket, enough to secure his rent and make sure that he can have fun with the band this weekend without worrying about what meals he would have to sacrifice.

His stomach churns. He might cut out meals anyway. Brian has never figured out why a cocaine crash makes him lose his appetite for days, but it does. It is harder to hide on the weekends when he is with Freddie, Roger, and John nearly the entire time. Freddie has an annoying habit of trying to feed him constantly.

Brian blows air out of his mouth, wondering what excuse he can use to beg off food. It won’t be hard to say he doesn’t have any in his apartment because he doesn’t. Maybe a loaf of moldy bread and some spoiled milk.

The other problem with the trains before rush hour is that instead of body odor it smells clearly of piss. Brian suspects that it is the grungy man lying across the benches.

Brian looks away ashamed he had bothered to judge this man. It feels like he is lying to the world. Maybe the Scarlet Letter has the right of it. Can’t feel ashamed if everyone knows. Maybe he should stop listening to Roger’s informal book club (of one) that thrives on reading controversial books.

He shoves his hands in his pockets on the walk home. There are more people out, but he feels calmer knowing that he is going to his flat. The sky begins to turn orange, washing away the secrets of the night and Brian feels the tension fall from his shoulders. Four hours of sleep has always been enough for him.

His flat is cold, almost colder than outside. The thought of turning on the heat burns his wallet, but it is Saturday and the stall won’t be opening today, which means Roger and Freddie are going to be coming from their own heatless flat. Roger gets dreadfully cold too and John, who tends to arrive when the others do, will complain for the sport of it. Freddie at least might thank him for footing the bill.

And maybe the warmth of the flat will make him feel warm.

When the heater kicks on, it does so with the faint smell of burning dust. He moves to the bathroom once he is satisfied that nothing will catch on fire.

Brian fills the tub with scalding water. His skin reddens from the steam as he slips his working clothes off, he catches the shirt before it hits the ground remembering that it had received rough treatment tonight. There is a tiny rip near the pocket and he thinks that might have kept the button, so shoves it along with the rest of his clothes to the bottom of his hamper so he doesn’t have to see them until he does laundry.

Last night did not leave him with any bruises that he has to explain away thankfully. There are only scratches on his chest and bruises on his knees and hips which will not be seen unless he stands before someone naked, as he is now. Brian can barely do that when he is having sex, much less on the random.

He takes a moment to check the raw spot on his face in the mirror. The redness of his face draws attention to the yellowing skin of his nose. He sucks in a breath, still tender from the cocaine and the temperature change. A yawn forces its way out. His jaw stretches unhappily as he recalls how long he had to keep it open last night.

Perhaps the smart thing to do would be to skip this part and go straight to bed, his mum’s warning of drowning in a tub ringing in his ears. But he hasn’t drowned yet, and he needs to scrape the hands of strangers off of his skin.

His nails leave deep runs in his arms and across his belly as he recalls each place he was touched last night. The women had been the kindest, but oftentimes that is the trend. Men take and take hard but women will coax. Brian swallows down the sick rising in his throat knowing it will only be bile. He shouldn’t complain, he chose to do this. Has already had every awful thing laid before him and he chose to continue.

It is not as though it is permanent, just until he gets an actual job or he is rich enough to hang his gold and platinum records on his manor walls.

* * *

Freddie’s yelling wakes him up. The water has turned luke-warm. There is a fine swirl of gray dirt that is stirred up by his movements. He pulls the drain and tries to not empathize with the water before he gingerly stands.

His lower back and arse hurt as he straightens to his full height. The stiffness has settled in his knees. Brian inhales and notes the smell of burnt bread wafting from his kitchen. He is happy that he managed to wash his hair even though half of it is soaked from where his head had slipped into the basin.

Maybe drowning in the tub isn’t as much of a wives’ tale as he thought.

Brian pulls on ratty sweats and a jumper, completely zipping it up to his throat. He places his hands in his pockets to hide the shaking. The concealer has been washed off and Brian dabs cool water under his eyes to try and make himself look rested and worried.

His kitchen can survive Freddie and there is no food to ruin.

“Brian!”

Roger’s voice is hushed, which means that his kitchen might truly be in danger.

“Breaking and entering is a crime,” Brian says softly. He wrinkles his nose at the roughness of his voice.

“No breaking,” John is here too?

“Just entering!”

“With a key!”

“That you made illegally.”

Roger waves his hand. Brian sighs and wonders why he thought Roger – or any of them – would care about semantics. He turns the corner and while it looks like someone mauled his bread, there are no scorch marks.

“Well, your cupboards are as bare as Rog’s and mine,” Freddie smiles, “so I thought we might as well start early. Good morning Brian.”  
It takes him a second for Brian to notice the orange juice, in what looks like an old milk jug, and a half-empty bottle of vodka.

“We had a lot of oranges leftover from our last concert, so mind the seeds and pulp.”

“I’m not getting drunk at – what even time is it?”

“Nine,” John yawns.

“Why?” Brian asks.

Even if he is used to his house being invaded, usually it isn’t until mid-morning. Both John and Freddie point at Roger. He scowls but it doesn’t hide the slight blush on his cheeks. Brian raises an eyebrow, Roger doesn’t hate mornings the way he does but he doesn’t always brave them.

Roger clears his throat and rubs his cheeks before pushing the newspaper towards him.

“Still stealing from your neighbor?”

“I give it back,” Roger murmurs, “she just thinks the delivery boy has it out for her.”

“Roger must keep up on the political drabble,” Freddie says.

He dances out of the way of Roger’s annoyed frown while Brian picks up the paper. It isn’t the front page – or the classifieds – which means that Roger must have returned the rest of the paper before coming over. They aren’t talking about a new gig spot either.

John helpfully points at the article he is meant to read.

**‘Woman murdered in failed mugging.’**

_A woman was found dead in south Lambeth early Saturday morning after police were patrolling the area for a burglary suspect._

Brian skips a few paragraphs down.

_Police say all of the victim’s identification was untouched, including a hospital ID card. Police also say anything of value appears to have been removed from the scene._

He reads a little further and he frowns. It is too much of a coincidence to not be the woman from the train, but at the same time, it’s too much of a coincidence to _be_ the woman from the train. Brian closes the paper and looks up at the others.

“That’s near where you work, yeah?” John says.

“About a few blocks difference,” Brian shrugs one shoulder.

There isn’t a picture on the paper so he can’t be sure, but maybe her obituary will – no, he doesn’t need to think about the woman and the mugging beyond this conversation.

Roger clears his throat, “it seems a bit dangerous ‘round there. Last month you stumbled into Freddie’s and mines flat, pinching your nose from a mugger, and now a woman is dead from one.”

“It isn’t the best part of town.”

Brian turns around and starts messing with the wilted flower, he clips off a dried leaf. He hears what sounds like a huff from Roger and a noise of comfort, so Freddie probably.

“What Roger is trying to get around to saying, darling, is that we’re worried about you.”

He winces and his back muscles take that moment to spasm. Copper fills his mouth, and he bites back a noise of pain as he bites down on his tongue.

“Surely you can find other work now, bartending doesn’t suit you.”

“It suits me fine,” Brian replies, his voice cracks and he lets out a sigh, “paid in cash, under the table, means I get more money. Right now I need the money.”

“I wish you’d go and talk to the university. They cut your position without a single warning,” Freddie continues, “that all seems strange.”

“Or find a place around here that’s hiring,” John quips.

“To be fair, they didn’t have much of a choice to give a warning,” Brian says tightly before he shrugs again, “the bar is nice. Enough downtime to work on my essays.”

“Until you get shanked and left in a gutter.”  
“Roger!”

“What? His nose was broken!”

Brian stops fiddling with his napkins, “but I survived. Didn’t even need a hospital visit.”

“Shoulda gone,” Roger sulks.

He takes a second to observe Roger. His finger is tapping aggressively on his velvet jacket, even his foot is tapping but both motions are out of sync. Brian covers his sigh with a sniffle and a yawn, the yawn more genuine. Roger’s blue eyes keep flicking over to Brian and away. A frown forms on to Roger’s lips and the tip of his tongue sits out.

If Roger can’t see what he is hiding…Brian raises a brow, then strangers shouldn’t be able to either but perhaps he is more honest to people he doesn’t need.

“Roger, I’m fine.”

Roger’s eyes rake up and down his body before sighing, “if you say so.”

John looks between them as he snaps the page closed, “think about it, Bri? Can’t make music if you’ve got yourself injured.”

He frowns, “well, I’m not injured so I can make music.”

Freddie places a hand on his shoulder. Brian thinks about shrugging it off, but he notices how Freddie’s eyelids flutter, asking for this touch and instead presses into the contact.

“What he means, dear, is don’t go wandering around that part of town with your head in the stars.”

“No promises,” he quirks his lips upward, “but I’ll do my best.”

Freddie drops his shoulder after squeezing once in warning, “wonderful. Now you’re going to take a nap and then we’re going out.”

“Fred?”

“You look like you haven’t slept in a week, and I don’t know that it is entirely inaccurate.”

“I have at least slept,” he counts on his fingers, “ten hours.”

“This week?”

Brian rubs the back of his neck, “well, in the past three days?”

He feels Freddie’s fingers press in his shoulders again guiding him to his bedroom. Brian closes his eyes and tries to ground himself in the cinnamon scent that seems to follow Freddie around. The grip turns harder and he feels his chest being pushed into the wall with it. He swallows down the memory and yawns again.

Freddie lets out a quiet _tsk_ and Brian is happy that his rigidness goes unnoticed.

“I can tuck myself into bed. I am an adult.”

“I know that, darling, but let me?”

Brian nods, “are you three going to ruin my house while I sleep?”

Freddie laughs. It is warm and bright and erases the heavy grunts from last night, “I have a song I want to tease out. I figured your bed is as good a place as any.”

“I made sure he brought a pencil this time!” John calls out.

“Thanks, Deaky,” Brian calls back softly.

“We managed to get the paint out!”

“Yes, and now my duvet has a nice spot of bleach in the middle of it.”

Freddie’s hand leaves his shoulder to wave away the accusation and Brian lets himself breathe easier at the freedom it gives him.

He doesn’t let Freddie manhandle him into bed, even with encouraging pushes. Freddie frowns and Brian thinks about how to distract him from his budding concern, so he makes sure to climb over the bed, extending his legs. Freddie’s eyes follow the extension of his leg and Brian can sigh in relief.

Then guilt settles in his stomach as he realizes how he misuses his friend’s attraction for him.

The bed creaks as he settles into it, “only a few hours Fred.”

“Scout’s honour.”

“You’re neither a scout nor do you have honor.”

“Still sore about that Scrabble loss, are you?”

“You swapped our tiles when I went to the loo!”

Brian pulls the duvet over him and lets it rest against his neck. Freddie follows him into the bed but pulls out his pocket notebook and a pencil that is barely longer than his pinky.

“Sharpener is –”

“In the second desk drawer next to the paper clips, I know, Brimi.”  
He nods with a bemused smile and lays his head on the pillow. Freddie’s hand goes to his hair and Brian fights back the urge to move away from him. He knows how easy it is for those fingers to flex into his scalp and _pull._

That used to be one of his favorite sensations. When Freddie’s hand moves to petting, he lets out a breath, just long enough to make it seem as though he has fallen asleep. Once more using his body as a distraction.

Once more he falls asleep pretending like nothing in his world has changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to Havvy for helping me edit the first few chapters and for listening and supporting me through the writing process! It means a lot! It was a major help, motivation, and inspiration! So thank you very much for your time and effort!


	2. it hurts to plan it through (i do regret these times)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two lets goooo!

The words swirl around his head like the smoke from a cigarette, a half-finished song, about longing and loss. He sees the embers of a cigarette discarded by his feet and Brian closes his eyes as calloused hands skate down his arms. A chest presses again his back and holds him tenderly. The gentleness makes him sick, and he needs something to focus on: the embers of the cigarette.

Maybe by the time it burns out, he will be –

Brian opens his eyes to the ceiling of his bedroom. Freddie is no longer beside him, and he is glad because he doesn’t see the sweat staining his armpits and probably in the creases of his pants by the juncture of his thighs. He lets out a tiny groan and sniffs, a strong smell of cigarette smoke stains the air around him, he thinks it lingers from the dream.

The scent makes him gag. No one comes running into to check on him, so he pulls his shirt over his head. The bruises and scratches sing to him like a siren song, but he ignores the mirror to dig around his room for something cleanish to wear. It doesn’t matter what he looks like when they aren’t on stage.

He wonders what he kind of outfit he should wear because he doesn’t know where they are going tonight. Freddie must have mentioned it. He finds an undershirt that hides most of his bruises and opens his closet door, staring at the dark-colored shirts. There are a few snatches of color, more than likely those used belong to Roger or Freddie, from their trades or accidental mixing of laundry. He picks up the sleeve of a silky red shirt.

He doesn’t need red to prove to the world he is a cheap whore. Brian drops the fabric as the door swings open, Roger and Freddie stumbling into his room giggling like the mad bastards they are. A tired sigh tells him that John isn’t too far behind.

What song had he been dreaming about? The words should have been written the second he broke free from the grasp form the nightmare. Brian taps his chin in thought, better question: what time is it?

“Brian! Welcome back to the world of the living!” Roger grins.

“You’ve slept long enough for it to be a respectable hour to go out,” Freddie, as he pulls out his hand to wiggle his finger he also pulls out of piece of paper that falls to the ground, “but you simply cannot go out like this.”

Brian looks down at his outfit, and it isn’t something he would wear out even when not in Freddie’s presence. As he suspected, there are a few spots of sweat near his groin.

John squeezes around the other two in the door and perches neatly the bed. There is a reddish tint to John’s nose, Brian looks at Freddie and Roger, and now he can see the remnants of the cold air. Roger’s cheeks are red, in that charming cherub way his face sometimes resembles. Even Freddie’s face is a shade like the finest coating of rouge.

He looks back at the red shirt, he can wear red well; Freddie has said it enough times. Only… Brian has worn it to work frequently enough to wonder what would happen if a client spotted him out with his friends.

“Don’t dilly-dally, Brian, pick out an outfit!” Freddie claps his hands, which Brian notices are red from the cold air, “maybe something to shake of that Mr. Maturity cloud you have about you.”

Brian watches as Freddie’s hands fold in mysterious patterns. Belatedly he notes the tiniest stain of nicotine by the corner of his nail. They had been out smoking – of course they had been.

Brian takes a step back and scrunches up his nose. The smell is strong, and it feels like it is the only thing he can breathe in. His hip touches the corner of the vanity.

There is a flicker of something in Roger’s bright eyes, brightened by the red of his face. His lips pull down into a frown.

“You reek,” Brian grumbles.

Roger rolls his eyes, the strange emotion vanishes with the turn of his lips into an annoyed scowl, “we went outside and everything for you.”

“You have to, otherwise you would all have to gather ‘round my sink so you don’t trigger the fire alarm.”

“That and you threw away all of our ashtrays,” Roger shrugs, “I paid good money for those! Made sure they matched the drapes and everything.”

“I don’t have drapes.”

“Well they match, don’t they?”

Brian laughs. It is rough but genuine.

Freddie’s musician’s ear doesn’t miss it, “you aren’t catching a cold are you, Brimi? Are you wearing your mittens and muffler, I paid good money for them?”

“I feel fine.”

As he lies, he is surprised to realize that he doesn’t know where the muffler had gone. Had he lost it at the Dealer’s place, or will he find it in his alley soggy from the changing weather and not worth saving at all?

Will someone find him soggy and abandoned in an alley–

“Brian,” John’s fingers snap in front of his face.

Brian frowns and pushes the hand away. The smell from John isn’t as strong as the others. He probably only smoked one cigarette to Freddie and Roger’s three. He doesn’t know what to think of John picking up the habit. The first time he tried, only a few months ago, he coughed up a lung and swore off trying another.

Then he _had_ tried another. And another. And another. Now it seemed like he couldn’t stop. Maybe he could if he tried hard enough, but it wasn’t harming him yet why would he –

“Brian?”

“Sorry, I guess I must be catching something. I’ll take some paracetamol before we go out.”

“Willingly taking medicine?” Roger laughs, “who are you and what have you done with my Brian?”

“Didn’t even have to say it,” John’s lips curl up, “maybe my brains are finally rubbing off on him.”

Brian crosses his arms, “no, I’m just in the mood to go out.”

Freddie blinks, “that’s a switch.”

“Might as well,” he shrugs, “before I’m labored down with illness and swaddled like a baby by Roger.”

Roger picks up the piece of paper, probably an abandoned song if Brian had to guess. The shot goes wide and rolls a few centimeters away from his foot. Brian picks it up to straighten it out only for Freddie to snatch it away.

“If it’s crumpled there’s no use in shining a light on it.”

He hums, “well? Fred, you want to pick something out for me?”

Freddie claps his hands together before turning to the closet. Brian can hear murmurs about something to show off his legs. He hops up to sit on his vanity and covers his hand that is shaking with nerves with the steadier one and looks at Roger and John who are now scrambling under his bed looking for song scraps that must have tossed away when Freddie was writing in Brian’s bed.

He tries shifting on the vanity when the pain starts to curl up his spine, but after a moment he gives up and jumps down. The sleep had done wonders for the aches, but there are some things that only time will heal.

Freddie turns around with an armload of clothes.

“I’m not doing a fashion show,” Brian rubs his chest.

“Aw, and here I thought you were going to be _appeasing_ all night.” His lips curl into a sultry smile. Brian returns the expression in equal intensity, Freddie’s eyes flicker to his lip before Brian shakes his face of the expression and thought.

“No, just, something nice. Simple. Easy to get on and off.”

He hears snickers from beside his bed.

“ _Because_ I plan on going out on the lash and I don’t want thirty buttons to fight with when I go to bed.”

The giggling doesn’t stop.

“Children,” he huffs and crosses his arms.

When the laughter doesn’t stop and Freddie lets a snicker escape and Brian scowls grabbing the first shirt and pants, he can find out of Freddie’s pile, before storming out of his bedroom. He doesn’t slam his door so he can hear their amusement grow into belly laughter.

It is funny, is it? Thinking about Brian dropping his pants for anyone.

He closes the bathroom door and glances at himself. His color has returned from its exhausted paleness, “everyone has to pay at least.”

Brian spits a laugh and then leans against the wall letting out tiny chuckles. God almighty.

“See! Mr. Maturity is laughing too!”

* * *

He is two shots and a third of a beer in when he starts to feel the urge to use the bathroom. Freddie and Roger entertain themselves with a game of people watching. John’s eyes glance at the various people they point out but every few minutes Brian feels them skitter back to him, curiosity and heat burning equally in their gaze.

Brian ignores it, tilting his head as though he is listening to the lyrics of the live band. They aren’t bad but the playing feels mechanical.

“I need to use the restroom,” he pitches his voice above the music.

Roger grumbles about getting up and instead takes a long drag from the bottle in front of him.

“Shouldn’t have grabbed a booth then,” Brian replies smartly.

“And spend the night trying to avoid people spilling drinks on me? Pass.”

He nods, “then get up.”

Roger pushes himself up dramatically, adding a long-suffering sigh in for good measure. Brian hopes that it is dramatic and not that Roger is annoyed with him.

He gives Freddie and John a brief look. When they don’t ask any questions, Brian begins to weave his way through the crowd. A few people bump into him, drunkenly or just because of the density of people. Unlike Roger’s suspicions would suggest, he doesn’t end up covered in beer.

Brian curses as he joins the queue, there _would_ be fifteen people in front of him. The people in line aren’t yet drunk enough for him to cut in front of. He bounces his head in time with the music. Two songs are played by the time he reaches the door. When he checks behind him, no one else had gotten in line.

He rolls his eyes.

Dirt-stained white tiles cover both the walls and the floors. The toilet and sink look clean enough, marked by a hard-water line. He doesn’t feel completely grime-covered for having entered. Not that he wants to spend much time in here.

He washes his hands quickly as he is afraid of holding up the line that could have formed. As he flicks the water off his hands, he reaches for a paper towel.

There aren’t any.

“Typical.”

Brian checks his reflection in the cracked mirror, which he has to step to the side of the sink to look into. His eyes look tired and vacant, but his outfit (a crisp white button-up and dark gray slacks with an open vest) draws attention to his chest with the first three buttons undone. He fluffs his hair and sighs, truthfully, he doubts that anyone is looking at his face.

As he lowers his gaze, he opens the door.

A hand on his chest stops him. He gets pushed back into the stall. Brian opens his mouth, a sharp ‘watch where you’re going’ on his lips but he snaps his jaw shut quickly.

“Bunny, _sweetheart,_ fancy meeting you here.”

Brian stares at the Dealer from last night. He doesn’t sell in this area, it is the skeevy bouncer at the club down the road that Freddie and Tim have bought from before. It must be some curse of fate for this man to end up in this very spot: in front of Brian with a cat in the cream smirk on his face.

“So,” the word curls around Brian’s throat, “you do dress like you’re always on the clock.”

“I’m not working,” Brian replies, “so please let me out.”

The Dealer crosses his arms, a tiny smile playing on his lips. John makes stubborn sexy; this man just makes Brian nervous.

“Helped, right?”

“What?”

“Last night, you’re always so willing and wanting for a sample. So, you must think it helps.”

Brian swallows. The Dealer’s eyes follow it. He takes a step back, but the bathroom isn’t that large, and he bumps against the paper towel holder on the opposite wall. The Dealer doesn’t follow him. His relief is short as the thud of the lock echoes in his head.

“Hey!” He frowns.

“We’re just having a friendly business discussion.”

“Not interested,” he grits his teeth.

The Dealer pats his pockets. He looks confused for a second before pulling out a tiny bag of white powder. It swings back and forth, and Brian’s eyes shift to it, before going straight back to the Dealer’s face. His head is buzzing like the florescent bulb above them.

“It numbed you,” the man says sympathetically, “made things… easier.”

“Don’t need it now,” Brian says, and when there isn’t a shift in expression, he changes tactics, “don’t have the money.”

That is what dealers want anyway, at least ones dumb enough to approach people in public restrooms like a shitty crime novel.

“Interesting.”

The bag makes a quiet _plop_ as it hits the edge of the sink.

“Because I know a bit about you, and I’ve heard that mouth of yours will be more than enough.”

Brian shivers. Is he truly asking him to use my body to buy his drugs? His brain halts at the reminder of what it felt like. Last night hadn’t been his first time trying it, hell he has gotten samples from this Dealer in the past but –

Damn _._

“Well?”

His chest is uncomfortably tight and his voice strains in his throat, “I don’t need it tonight?”

“C’mon Bunny,” the dealer says gently.

“I don’t –”

“Tonight, I know. How about the next time you have strangers pawing at you all night?”

Just in the morning _._ His hands shake at his sides. He feels his stomach churn. A small ember of the old him flares to life: walk away. Walk away. Walk away!

And the Dealer _is_ right. It did make the clients happier and the night easier. Brian smacks his lips and looks at the door. How long had he been gone? Would the others be looking for him by now? Well, Roger knows where he had gone. If he was worried, then he would have checked by now. Does that mean that they don’t worry about him?

He looks back at the baggy on the sink, it had been nice to care even less about what was done to him. All he felt was a foggy bliss like he could fall from the BT Tower and survive. Even if it had been a different drug than what he is being offered tonight.

“It’s going to be over quick.”

The words tighten around his neck. Brian closes his eyes and pushes away the completely sober part of himself. Everyone does it.

“I –” he takes a deep breath, “okay.”

The Dealer is kind enough to let him get comfortable kneeling before shoving his pants down. Brian wrinkles his nose at the completely soft cock in front of his face. He wets his lips and lets out one last breath before he opens his mouth and it is shoved in.

It isn’t the largest he has ever had in his mouth. There is the slightest twitch from his body as his gag reflex hasn’t been worked away completely yet. He feels it thickening with blood and he tries to not stare at the dark pubic hair in front of him.

* * *

Brian lets the Dealer have a five-minute head start before he himself leave. There had been someone trying to get in, rattling the door handled rapidly, part way though his… job. He cleans himself up again using the water to wipe away the mess around the corner of his lips. The moment that the warm water touches his face he is doubling over the sink and losing what little is in his stomach.

The vomiting sounds twice as loud, and the coughing louder. He catches a glimpse of the mess, mostly clear and streaked with white and amber.

He notices the water still has a brown tinge in it, likely from his hands having been used to balance himself on the floor, and he knows the knees of his pants give a clear enough tale if his swollen lips and messy hair don’t. His throat burns and he coughs again, wiping his hands on his pants. This time it leaves streaks of white on his thighs.

It feels like the drugs are burning a hole in his pocket and he can’t stop himself from checking it every ten seconds to make sure that it hadn’t fallen out. As he bends down to clean the mess on his face again, he coughs. His stomach stays in place and he uses his sleeves to wipe the tears from his eyes.

There isn’t a line when he steps out of the bathroom, at least people aren’t waiting around because of him. Brian looks down the hallway, the delivery entrance isn’t much further, he could slip out and into the night with barely a soul noticing. When he hears what he thinks is his name through the crowd and he turns back around.

John materializes in front of him a heartbeat later.

“There you are,” John says, his voice is slurred with drink and annoyance, “you’ve been gone for almost an hour, what were you doing? Shagging in the loo?”

Brian’s lips twist but he forces them upward, “ah, the drink caught up with me. Doesn’t mix well with paracetamol, who knew?”

He closes his eyes at the wave of guilt. How easy has it become to lie to his friends? Even if it isn’t technically a lie that he had gotten sick. John tilts his head.

“Sorry,” Brian shrugs.

John runs his eyes up and down his body, “we should probably get you home, yeah? Roger got hit on _again_ and then yelled at when he wasn’t a woman, _again_. Freddie hauled him out, so they’ve been standing there while I’ve been looking for you.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t… it isn’t your fault.”

Brian closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath.

“Still queasy?”

“Getting that way.”

John grips the arm that isn’t in his pocket. Brian hopes the bag is relatively waterproof because he can feel his hand start to slip as the sweat builds. He rubs his free hand against his pants again. Which draws John’s attention lower.

“Have you been ill the entire time that you’ve been in there?”

“No,” Brian says.

John doesn’t reply but leads them out of the bar with some supernatural ease of weaving through crowds. Brian had bumped into what felt like everyone earlier, but John doesn’t get even brushed as he heads to the door.

A shiver runs down his spine. Brian looks behind him and into the crowd, but he doesn’t see the familiar face that he was looking for. He can only hope that the Dealer booked it after they had their moment or that he isn’t watching now.

Roger and Freddie are smoking under the lamppost. Brian wrinkles his nose, but the smell of smoke doesn’t bother Brian like it had earlier. He looks at Freddie who has half of the cigarette gone, but Roger’s hasn’t lit his at all. The smoke was just his breath. The dark scowl he has on his face tells Brian that he shouldn’t press.

“You aren’t smoking,” he blurts.

Freddie jumps and Roger turns slightly, rolling his eyes.

“Didn’t feel like taking my gloves off to light it,” Roger replies.

John grumbles something under his breath.

Roger tosses the cigarette to the ground. The filter has been chewed up, but he stomps on it anyway. Brian sees that the white paper has ripped and the filling spills out to the slush.

Roger answers whatever John has said, “I’m not going back in there with that fuck.”

Brian open his mouth about to ask how Roger knows about the Dealer – but John had said something about Roger getting hit on again and he covers his surprise with a yawn.

Freddie tosses his on the ground as well, “now, now, you should be happy he thinks you’ve got a woman’s ass.”

Brian tilts his head, but Roger lets out a laugh, it is a little tight.

“Still…”

Freddie turns his attention to Brian now that Roger isn’t going to storm back at the reminder of the man who ruined his night. Brian wonders how he has the energy to summon the anger when Brian let the man who ruined his night fuck his mouth.

“And how are you, Brimi, dear?”

“Started feeling unwell,” he says instead of answering.

Roger frowns, “were you sick that entire time?”

Brian shrugs.

John releases his arm, making Brian flush at the realization that he had been holding it the entire time. He can see that there is a red tinge on John’s face that doesn’t belong entirely to the cold.

“How are you feeling now?”

I don’t know. Brian squeezes the baggy in his pocket and looks up at the stars. They are obscured by some clouds but there are enough that he can make out a constellation.

“Brian!”

He blinks and tilts his head back down, only to have to furiously blink and bring Roger’s snapping fingers into focus.

“They’re pretty,” he says dumbly before his brain reroutes to what the conversation had been, “if I get sick, I can just do it in an alley.”

“Are you feeling like you are going to get sick?” Freddie asks.

Brian focuses on his stomach, which still feels unsettled, but less like riding a boat in a storm and more like a black hole of guilt. The type you don’t want to feed so it stays the same size.

“My stomach is still…”

“Alright, then. The air should perk you right back up.”

Freddie grabs his arm – the one with the hand that holds the baggy – and starts pulling him forward. Roger falls in step ahead of them, and John brings up the rear. He feels Freddie talking to him, and he thinks it must be about someone at the bar that has caught his attention. Brian can only concentrate on keeping one foot in front of the other.

Had he really given a blowie in the bathroom for blow?

He wrinkles his nose. The play on words had been terrible. Brian glances back at Freddie who is chatting animatedly, the light in his eyes bright and smile just big enough to show his happiness but not give a stranger any sort of look at his teeth. He wishes Freddie would be more confident in himself, he is stunning. Brian shakes his head, what had he been thinking before?

Right. He is happy Freddie can’t read his thoughts because he also would have been disgusted by the play on words. A stupidly loud part of him reminds himself that Freddie would also be disgusted with him selling himself like some cheap whore.

You _are_ a whore _,_ the stupidly loud part of him says.

“Do you need any of us to stay at your place?”

“Ah, no,” Brian says quietly.

“Do we need to cancel the studio time?”

“No!”

The force of his words surprises him. He flushes and looks to the street. Maybe he should carry a camera with him because how the streetlights shine off the melted snow is magical.

“I need it this week.”

He needs something to remind himself that there are things to look forward to in the morning.

“Sure, Brimi,” Freddie says softly, “whatever you need, love.”

Brian tightens his hand and bites his tongue.

“I’ll get you,” Roger adds, “we’ll just ride together and back, you promised to help me study this weekend anyway.”

“Right. Yeah.”

“Did you forget again?” Roger turns around and raises an eyebrow.

“No,” Brian mumbles but the brow arches higher, “maybe.”

“S’okay, just buy my dinner and I’ll forgive you.”

“It isn’t like I stood you up!” Brian squawks, hoping his protest sounds normal and not forced.

“You did mentally,” Roger wiggles his fingers, “spicy curry from that one place!”

“Oi!”

“Oh! I want that too,” John adds, “but extra spice.”

“Buy me those biscuits from that place and that naan appetizer.”

“I thought it was just Roger coming to visit?” Brian sighs.

“It feels like we haven’t had any time together in ages, like we’re strangers” Freddie sighs, but then perks back up, “so we’re having a sleepover!”

Brian’s smile turns into a grimace. He doesn’t want them to know him as he is right now. Right now, he knows that he isn’t Brian May. He is just living Brian May’s life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, another thank you to Havvy for editing and listening while I wrote this story.
> 
> Man can I ever give Brian a break? Apparently not, and this story has got a very slow start.  
> As always, leave your thoughts and comments below or come talk to me on tumblr!!


	3. to twirl around the crowd (there is a hidden path to fame)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it again!  
> Enjoy!

Brian doesn’t get sick in the alley on the walk back, even as his stomach ties itself into knots about what the night could bring. He worries that Roger, Freddie, and John are going to try and convince him to let them stay the night at his place, and while he wouldn’t make them brave the night again if they didn’t want to, he wants to be alone with his actions and thoughts. Roger only overstays his welcome long enough to set him up with medicine and a glass of water.

“I’ll be here at eleven.”

Brian nods.

“I set your alarm for nine.”

“Thanks,” he grumbles, his cheeks heating up at being fussed over like he is a child.

Roger pauses at the door of his room, yellow light from the hallway makes his eyes look warm and blond hair falls over his shoulder, it is unfair how pretty he is, “feel better, B. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Night, Roger.”

A tiny frown pulls at Roger’s lips and they part like he is going to say something, but he steps out and closes the door with a quiet _click._

In the dark of the room, Brian expects the harsh hands of strangers to tug him to sleep. Brian rolls onto his side. His clothes hang over the back of the chair. The last footsteps of Roger in the flat cause the wood to crack which turns into the rustle of a plastic baggy and then the crinkling of foil.

He closes his eyes and lifts the blanket over his head to block out the sound. There is sharp pain along his lower back. Brian swallows but it isn’t only air, so he tries to breathe through his nose. It is grainy and it burns. He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. He used to have stars stuck to it, didn’t he?

The melody from earlier drowns out the crinkling foil but is now punctuated by grunts where there should be drums. Brian sits up and the phantom hands fall from his mind. There is a song in his head, but he can’t remember the lyrics, his memory seems to be worse lately – he regrets not having written them down.

Brian can’t remember what he drank tonight, but he remembers the man from a month ago whose nails left scratches deep enough to bleed - the sting feels like it never healed. He remembers the cocks more than he remembers the men and the pussies more than he remembers the women.

He stands his legs a little shaky and moves to his guitar case with a swell of determination to get the song out of his head and into the world. Brian lifts her out gently and then he fiddles with the tuners and then rests her across his lap as he sits back down.

His fingers pluck through a warmup. It is mindless and automatic, but it keeps his mind from wandering. The exercises don’t change, they will always be the same – his ring finger slips from the string filling the room with a dull twang. He stares at his hand in confusion.

“Sorry,” he says to Red.

Brian restarts the warm-up. It is one his father had taught him when he was between instruction books and begging for a teacher. His mum had made him take piano that summer, instead. Writing music had opened up to him – he can’t write anything using the piano, but music theory made more sense. At the very least, he understands Freddie easier: when Roger can’t decipher the jumped notes and peculiar refrains. John, the strange one, hasn’t learned piano and writes for the bass first – or so he says – John hasn’t given them a song yet.

The last chord is strummed, but Brian is already attempting to play out the melody in his head. It is disjointed and there doesn’t seem to be any sense to it, and after a few stubborn restarts, he declares it too chaotic to work.

It feels like no time has passed and he is no closer to sleeping than he was before. He stands and lays Red in her case gently, loosening the strings before closing and locking the lid. Once Red is safe, he climbs back under the covers of his bed, taking a sip of the water, now room temperature, and some of it slips down his cheek and onto his pillow.

Once he sets the glass back down, spilling more over the side he closes his eyes to focus on how his fingers pressed and flexed against the strings and what notes they sang. Eventually, the monotony settles his brain into something charitably described as sleep.

Brian wishes that he would be able to say he slept through the night after that. Three more times he wakes up with the twang of a snapping guitar string echoing in his head and harsh breaths bouncing around the four walls of his room as he gasps for air – the sound too close to how his clients sound.

Fourteen minutes before his alarm is set to ring, he gives up on sleep. Brian tosses his sweaty clothes onto the floor. He kicks them towards the laundry basket and stares at the peeling Hendrix poster on the wall, well, the torn down concert flyer on his wall.

He stares at the flyer until he has to walk over to his nightstand to turn off his alarm before it goes off. Brian reaches into his drawers and grabs the first shirt he touches, then bends down and grabs what he thinks is Thursday’s jeans from the floor, before moving back to his radio and turning it on. He cranks the volume to full and in time to hear the last half a minute of The Hollies’ _Long Dark Road_. The DJ says as much over the final notes.

Brian grabs a towel from the floor and slings it over his shoulder as he walks to the shower. He flexes his fingers and catches sight of the dirt underneath his nails, he knows it is from the bathroom floor. The shower is still a mess from his hasty entrance and exit yesterday, and the mat is still drying.

The shower heats up quickly and he twists the temperature down to something more lukewarm. As he steps in, barely hears Elvis’ crooning voice coming from the radio. He mumbles along to the words until they reach the chorus, which he belts out as much as his fragile voice will allow him. It has a rasp to it that would put Roger to shame, but he can feel a scraping in the back of his throat as he drops his voice low.

He gets his hair wet when he accidentally leans forward and sighs, washing it again hadn’t been something he wanted to do but leaving it wet and nothing done to it will make a bigger mess for him later. Not to mention the complaints from Freddie. The shower takes him an extra few minutes, long enough to let the water go cold. He works the conditioner through the ends of his hair slowly, careful to avoid breaking any of the curls.

Brian turns the water off and then shakes his head to fling the droplets slipping through his curls. It splatters on the tub walls and ceiling. He doesn’t know that it works, but Freddie swears by his friend who told him this is how you keep curls from tangling together.

He pushes the shower curtain aside and the frown deepens. His shirt is going to get soaked, but he doesn’t want to walk around shirtless. Roger is notoriously early when he wants to be, and Brian has a sinking suspicion that he will be today.

As he pulls on his pants he nearly falls over as the denim sticks to his wet legs.

Lying about being sick had thrown them from the trail but it had put their attention right on him. Brian knows they watch him, he sees in the way that John follows the line of his legs to his ass and Roger focuses on his throat when he swallows and how Freddie goes wild when he strips down into an undershirt. Brian knows they _want_ him.

He also knows that once they learn what he has been doing they won’t want to touch him.

Brian bites his lip and hangs his head in his hands, cursing how much he wants them to touch him _like that_.

The radio speaker pops. He pushes himself away from the sink inhaling shaky breaths, letting the air sink deeper with each breath. His shirt is bunched up on the toilet lid and he slings it over his shoulder before walking back to his bedroom. The water slides down the crease of his spine which makes him shiver.

The clock ticks through mid-morning. He tosses his slightly damp shirt onto the bed and goes to his vanity where he has a special towel to dry his hair with. An advertisement closes with a chime, and he tunes out the cleaning service commercial.

“Can you believe,” the DJ exclaims causing Brian to jump and accidentally tug on his hair, “he comes in and puts five-hundred thousand pounds into the poorest parts of London. Asks for nothing…”

The DJ continues his awed rendition of the news as Brian slowly dries the ends of his hair. The curls are already starting to bounce with the lightness of being dry and he sucks in the sweet scent of coconut. Apparently, a rich man that uses public transport is something to be praised, the radio talks about him not getting stabbed late at night like it is an accomplishment.

His mind reminds him of the woman that died in the mugging and decides that it _is_ an accomplishment.

Three rapid knocks on his door startles him. Brian drops the rag back onto the vanity and turns the radio off.

“Brian! It’s Roger!”

He checks the time, 10:46. As he thought, Roger is early. Brian sighs and ruffles his hair before leaving his bedroom. Only to return a second later to pull the shirt over his chest.

“Coming!” He calls once Roger starts banging on his door, again.

“Could have at least answered right away, B,” Roger strolls past him into the living room.

“Hello to you too, Brian. How are you feeling?” Brian says dryly.

Roger clicks his tongue, “I don’t sound that nasally. It’s all in the throat.”

Brian bites down on his tongue and Roger turns around pushing his glasses to the top of his head.

“Ready, mate?”

“Nearly.”

Roger picks up one of the end balls on his Newton’s Cradle. _Click click click click._ Brian rolls his shoulders, his finger tapping a beat off from the _click click click._

“How much longer?” Roger says, trying to avoid stopping the ball with his finger as he sticks it through the arc.

“Not much,” Brian yawns, “have to get my songbook and guitar, then I should be ready.”

Roger’s eyes run down his body, lingering near his groin. Brian shifts his stance slightly which makes Roger’s gaze dart back up to his just as the ball hits his finger.

“Bollocks,” he murmurs, “hurry up then, Bri. Don’t want to be late.”

“Freddie won’t be there on time.”

Roger restarts the cradle, “doesn’t mean we should be late.”

“What are we supposed to do today?” Brian asks slowly wandering back to his room.

“Ah, I think we’re trying to figure out what we’ll put on our demos to send out, _again.”_

Brian winces, postage and fees are going to hurt.

Roger clears his throat, “don’t worry. John has been pulling some extra shifts at his night job, which I don’t get who needs a clock repaired past seven, but he is busy.”

“I can pay my way, Roger. I have a job.” He probably makes more than the three of them combined on a streak of good nights.

“Yeah… I forgot about your job,” Roger clears his throat, “sorry.”

Brian rolls his eyes at the sulky tone and steps heavier down the hall. He turns his head just enough to see Roger’s lips purse and a tiny sliver of guilt swim in his eyes. At the start, Brian had appreciated the break from having to support the band expenses and focus on keeping himself fed and sheltered, oftentimes choosing to work instead of spending time with them. It had caused some awkwardness, with John especially, but Brian has learned how to balance his two lives.

He hurries down the hallway, away from his guilt.

Brian rummages through the few notebooks he has scattered around his room, pushed from his desk, before finding the one that has been crudely decorated with stars and music notes. After checking that his guitar case is properly secured, he slides his clogs on.

“Roger must have left them in here last night.”

He pauses wondering where that hour of the night had gone; Between Freddie’s quiet encouragement in the street and Roger leaving him with water, he doesn’t remember anything. Brian sends a glance at his pants, but at some point the bag had fallen out of his pocket. _That_ part of the night, however, Brian can playback like a film.

Roger makes a soft racket in his living room still. Brian’s lungs freeze at the reminder that he isn’t alone and he tosses his notebook to the bed to pick up the bag and quickly hide it in the first open drawer he can find and slamming the drawer closed. An impatient Roger coming into his room and seeing that is the last thing that he wants.

Roger wouldn’t judge him too harshly, after all, he has been known to indulge during wild afterparties. He would ask Brian about it though and Brian doesn’t have a good answer.

“Brian!”

“Coming!”

Brian is careful to not bump Red’s case against any of the walls as he walks to the main room. Roger has settled in the ugly armchair with crossed arms, a magazine lying open on his lap.

“Thought I would make myself comfortable,” Roger stands, “since you seemed to be taking ages.”

Brian shrugs.

“Where is your notebook?” Roger raises a brow, “couldn’t find it?”

He looks down at his empty hand, sure he had picked it up. Then he checks his other hand. Right _._

“Left it on the bed.”

Roger rolls his eyes, “well you can grab it and I’ll take Red and get her settled in the car. It is five ‘till.”

Brian shifts his grip on Red’s case tighter before letting out a tiny sigh, “gently! Very gently!”

“I know, B,” Roger takes the case with exaggerated care, “I’ve got her.”

He makes sure that Roger has a good grip on her. The case is tilted more vertical than he had it, but Roger doesn’t seem to be struggling either.

Roger smiles, “go. She’ll be fine for the two minutes she is out of your sight.”

Brian nods. He trusts Roger, _he does_ , but he still worries about something happening to Red when she is out of his sight. If he sees what happened, then he could have a better chance to fix her. He shivers at the thought of her beautiful red headstock and neck being broken in two or worse her body split wide with a crack.

He moves back to his room, grabbing the notebook from his bed, and rushes out and up the stairs to see that Roger is already placing Red in the backseat and wedging her in the right way so she won’t slide around, Roger sends him a thumbs up. Brian goes back down the steps to lock the door, flailing his arms as he slips on the last one.

He takes his time climbing them the second time, and groans at Roger’s cheeky smile as he holds the car door open for him. There is a twist in Brian’s chest at the gentlemanly action before he remembers that because of how the door is dented he has never been able to open it himself. It is great fun for the rest of the band when they have time to kill.

“Thank you, driver,” Brian tightens his throat and nose to make his voice ring out in a fake-posh accent.

“Very good, young sir,” Roger mimics, “where to?”

“Take me to the studio,” he makes sure to lift his nose skyward.

Roger lets out a tiny laugh before skipping to the driver’s side and climbing in. As he sticks the key into the ignition Roger caresses the leather wheel with his hands. The car whines a few times as the engine struggles to turn over.

“Brian, talk sweet to her, she needs a bit of that magic.”

Brian lets out a long sigh, “c’mon girl, start up then.”

The engine groans before turning into a low purr. Roger pushes on the gas a few times, listening to the rumble before adjusting his review mirror.

“See! Magic.”

“She likes me better than you.”

“Eh, probably.”

Brian looks out of the window. The skies are clear for once, “did the forecast call for rain?”

“I think a rain-snow mixture tonight,” Roger switches the gear into drive, “but to return to the previous conversation, how are you feeling today, Brian?”

“Better, I think,” Brian leans his head back against the seat.

“You think?”

“Slept poorly. Couldn’t settle.”

Roger hums as he navigates traffic. Brian watches his hands tighten and soften on the steering wheel. His eyes dart from mirror to mirror before going back to the road, repeating the pattern every two minutes. Brian slips lower in the seat.

Once they are out of the heavy traffic Roger clears his throat, “couldn’t settle for what reason?”

“Too many thoughts,” Brian replies, “you know.”

“I know you.”

“I kept waking myself up,” he replies hotly.

Roger quirks a brow, but his eyes don’t leave the road, “forgive me then.”

Brian snorts. Roger’s jaw tightens but he doesn’t try to begin any more conversation. They spend the rest of the ride in silence and confessions try to crawl out his sore throat.

* * *

John is fiddling with a circuit board when they arrive, tiny tendons of wire lay around him in various sizes and states of fraying. One managed to get twisted in his hair. He doesn’t notice them, his tongue to the side as he twists something with pliers.

Brian smiles at the scene, John in his element of electricity and electronic guts.

“John, you didn’t take apart your amp again?” Roger asks as he walks through the doorway.

Brian follows him and notices that instead of their three amps, there are only two, and both are on John’s side. He frowns seeing the carcass of his _personal_ amp being used as a table for tools. The annoyance is smothered in exhaustion.

“Not mine. Had to. Buzzing sound. Feedback,” John rolls his tongue to the other side of his mouth, “very annoying.”

Brian sighs as he sets Red’s case down on her designated table.

“John, that was expensive.”

“I’ll put it back together. The wiring was fraying and there was some corrosion. Not to mention the actual box is falling apart.”

“It would have been fine. Has been for the past,” Brian pauses to count, his Dad had bought that for him shortly after Red was made right? Which was in… well, the year escapes him, but he knows that he was 17.

“Ah. It _is_ pretty old.”

John nods, “a bit. They use much better –”

The next few words are a string of technical babble that goes over Brian’s head. He knows what charge and conduit and wire mean but that is about it. Roger, sensibly, doesn’t say a thing.

“Anyway, I wanted to take it apart to see how it’s built.”

“Why mine?”

“Oldest. Plus, it was picked out to go with your guitar, so it is the best pair for Red. And you need a better one – newer at least – because I think we can get sounds out of her that you haven’t before.”

“Well I hope we don’t need it today,” he mumbles and sits next to John.

He watches as the bassist’s long and calloused fingers fiddle with the small parts delicately, following the line of the circuits as easily as he slides down the strings of his bass. The urge to apologize is thick in his throat, but then he looks down at his amp. The apology has waited this long, and they’re all in a good mood.

Roger moves, clearly not grieving over Brian's amp, and taps on his snare and after listening to the sound he wrinkles his nose.

“Someone get your kit off?” Brian asks.

John laughs. Roger glares at him before tossing his hair and crouching down to retune his drum set. Brian watches him mess with the knobs and create rolling rhythms. Blue eyes squint at the task in front of him. He feels John’s hand brush against his arm, the pads of his fingers featherlight, and leaving goosepimples where they pass.

“Brian, do you mind holding this bit here?”

He pinches the wire John indicates between his thumb and pointer finger, “this won’t shock me, will it?”

“Shouldn’t. No power.”

John grabs some kind of rubber circle and spins it around a post before now taking the wire and attaching it around the post. Brian makes sure to hold the wires properly as John had shown him, too afraid to earn John’s scathing tone again, last month had been enough for the year.

“There we are.”

“What did that do?”

“Keep the wire from sparking, hopefully.”

“You said it wouldn’t!”

John looks up for a split second and rolls his eyes, “not now. When it’s plugged in. I wouldn’t have you hold a live wire without protection.”

“You’d have me hold a live wire?” Brian lifts a brow.

“If there weren’t another choice,” John replies, reaching for another tool.

Brian has no idea why he is offended, “so, I’m not even your first choice to hold a livewire?”

Roger lets out a snort, “means he wants to keep you around because he _likes_ you.”

John tosses an empty bottle at Roger’s head – that had been hidden by his body. Roger ducks under it and bumps against his cymbals. They clatter together but don’t fall off the stand.

“Why John,” Brian grins, “that is the nicest you’ve ever been to me.”

He notices how John’s eyes go to his lips where he has his teeth on full display from the smile before he looks away. John doesn’t blush, at least not noticeably on his cheeks, but he does make himself smaller, tighter shoulders head pulled to his body.

“No, I trust Freddie to not electrocute me,” John says after a second.

His eyes float back to Brian’s smile and he softens it, before tilting his body away. John leans away as well, seemingly aware of how close they had gotten. Brian lets out a breath of relief as John’s heat vanishes from the side of his body. Out of the three of them, John’s body is the easiest for him to notice.

Like how he is always aware of when Freddie is looking at him. It is a prickle on the back of his neck and a sensation in his stomach like missing the last step.

“What do you say to that Fred?” Brian turns his head.

Freddie waltzes in, sunglasses perched perfectly on his nose and a hand on his hip, “depends on how dirty I’d have to get. Sorry, John, these pants are designer.”

John huffs, “about ten years ago.”

Brian allows his gaze to climb up Freddie’s body. The pants are tight in the right places but loose enough to not draw any attention that Freddie would not want. He wears a patterned shirt and a solid jacket over top.

“Why are we short an amp?” Freddie says after looking around the room for a moment.

“John,” Roger replies, popping up from behind the drums.

John shrugs at the accusation. He sets the board he was working on before setting to the side.

Brian grumbles, “do we even have a spare if we are recording?”

The three of them look at Freddie.

“We still need to determine what tracks go on the demo,” Freddie tosses his jacket to the couch with careless grace. Brian catches it before it tumbles onto the floor.

“Besides, Bri is still feeling unwell.”

“I haven’t said that.”

“You look like you haven’t been in the sun for three months, darling.”

“It has been winter.”

He crosses his arms and fights the yawn that springs to his lips. Brian doesn’t need Freddie trying to make him take a nap as he has in the past, this couch is comfortable to sleep on, just not when people are watching him. His nightmares aren’t only dedicated to keeping him awake at night.

“So, what, we sit and argue about songs?” Roger cracks his neck, “a bit hard when we don’t know how they’re going to sound on the vinyl.”

“We have so many we have to narrow it down,” Freddie perches on the arm of the couch.

Brian leans back into John’s space who moves an arm so that that is resting above him on the back of the couch. He is careful to not press any of his body against John’s.

“Fred, I have homework to do,” John replies, “I thought we were going to have a plan by now.”

“Another plan,” John adds after a second.

“You took apart my amp,” Brian says, “before we were supposed to record.”

John shrugs again.

Freddie rolls his eyes, “well, thoughts?”

Roger follows John’s lead and offers a shrug, “I think Keep Yourself Alive is one of our stronger ones.”

Brian hums, “it is one of the more polished ones too.”

“It goes on the shortlist. Personally, I like Great King Rat.”

“It’s a bit…” John bites his bottom lip, “does it sell us well?”

“It is Queen,” Freddie replies, “we wrote it. We play it. It’s our song.”

“Shouldn’t it be something a bit more catchy? Keep Yourself Alive has a good rhythm. Easy lyrics.”

Brian huffs, rolling his eyes at the insult to his song.

“We’re more than just catchy, Deaky.”

Roger taps his snare drum in agreement. Brian shifts slightly and his shoulders touch John’s ribs. He feels them tighten underneath his back, but he places a little more weight and John relaxes. Brian wedges his feet behind where Freddie is sitting.

“What about The Night Comes Down? It’s a good middle ground.”

Freddie shoots him a look, “that’d be two of yours.”

“They’re good.”

“They’re yours,” Roger shoots back, “Freddie should have some on there as well.”

“It’s not about balance,” Brian crosses his arms.

“No, but you aren’t our only songwriter,” John nods.

Brian closes his eyes at the vibration from his chest. It feels nice but it's too much, he feels the awareness of it reach his soul.

“Modern Times could do it,” Roger chirps.

“Really?” He purses his lips.

“Oy, you got to recommend your song.”

Brian shrugs.

“Well, we’ll get nowhere if we keep rallying for the only the songs we each wrote,” Freddie claps his hand once, “what about you John?”

“Er, I don’t have an opinion either way.”

“John!” Roger cries in exasperation, “you have a voice too.”

“They’re all good songs. We should go with what we think our strongest ones are. Right now, it sounds like with think Keep Yourself Alive is for sure being recorded, so we need something not like that.”

“No more of Brian’s dirges.”

“They aren’t dirges!”

Roger’s hand crashes against his kit and he curses, wiggling his fingers and he makes sure nothing topples over.

“Might as well be! They’re slow and sad.”

“It’s musical!” Brian feels his jaw tighten.

“And a bloody bore to play!”

“They aren’t!”

Roger stands up to his full height, “that’s only because you spent so much time on your guitar bits.”

“That’s rock and roll.”

“It’s more than guitar! Why do you think people don’t pay for just a single guy and a guitar on stage?”

Brian throws his hands in the air, “well, your songs are just simple!”

Brian can hear Roger’s teeth click together from here. He pulls his legs out from behind Freddie and tucks them under him in case Roger steps towards him.

“Boys! Boys let’s all take a step back, it’s far too early in the day for this.”

Roger sticks out his tongue and Brian returns the gesture. Freddie looks at him and shakes his head with a sigh, mumbling that sounds suspiciously like ‘child’. Roger preens and sticks his tongue out again as the one who hasn’t been caught.

John shifts a little, and Brian turns to look at him. He has pushed his hair behind his ear, and the barest hint of red is there. Brian props himself up more firmly on his arm now aware that John is crossing his leg and the circuit board is over his lip.

Had he done something? Brian sucks on his bottom lip. He doesn’t think so but John _is_ younger than them so maybe? Or is it simply him trying to push their relationship back to normal too quickly.

“Well,” Freddie struts to the other side of the room, “that discussion was productive.”

Brian unfolds himself and walks over to his guitar case, “well, what has been the best received at our gigs?”

Roger cocks his head before looking at Freddie, “I haven’t really noticed. Freddie?”

“All the ones that feel good,” Freddie replies kicking his legs, “the ones that feel good to jump around to and sing.”

“That should be all of them.”

Freddie laughs, “well that is the goal.”

“Liar,” John blurts, “that one people seem to like.”

Brian nods, “they do.”

“It’s got that nice bass solo in there too, right Deaky?” Roger jumps off the drum stand.

Brian watches as Roger bounces up and crosses the room in three easy strides.

“That too,” John laughs quietly, rubbing the back of his neck, “we should all have our strong point shown, yeah?”

Freddie taps his cheek with his finger, “since Deaky finally had an opinion I say we use Liar.”

“Aye,” Roger nods.

Brian unlocks his guitar case wanting to do something with his hands, “it won’t be too… much for people?”

“That’s the point, Brimi, dearest.”

He flushes, “well… I suppose.”

“Live a little. Explore that wild side of yours.”

Brian shakes his head, allowing his curls to fall into his face to cover his grimace. If they only knew, right, **Brimi, dearest?**

“Did anyone else skip breakfast?” Brian says a little too fast.

John furrows his brow, “no, breakfast was a spread.”

Brian turns around relocking his case. Roger is hanging off John now who is trying to push him off with a faked struggle. Freddie is playing with John’s circuit board.

“I had a lovely morning meal of nicotine,” Roger says drily, “and Brian didn’t say anything about the smell.”

“I was a bit busy,” Brian replies, he truly hadn’t noticed.

“What, trying to not drown under that mop of yours?” Roger raises a brow.

Brian wrinkles his nose, “getting ready since you were rushing me out of the door.”

“You had plenty of time!”

“Brian, what about you, since you asked?”

He looks back at his guitar case. It feels like they aren’t going to be any more productive than they have been. He is happy they aren’t recording; he doesn’t know how good Red would sound with one of John’s amps, especially when they don’t know how the equipment is going to make any of them sound.

Plus, he doesn’t have to be alone with them, they will be in public getting food. Brian feels exhausted already, trying to keep all his looks and movements completely platonic and casual even when the others start edging towards less than platonic. Even as he ignores the headache building behind his eyes.

“I could go for food,” Brian says quietly.

“Really?” Freddie’s voice is high in surprise.

“What?”

Roger’s face is a strange mix of confusion and concern. John’s gaze is sharper than normal. Brian looks to Freddie for help, but his sunglasses make his emotions unreadable, but there is a fine line of tension in his shoulders.

“You eat like a bird. You must be famished if you’re agreeing to eat.”

“I didn’t have anything this morning,” Brian says, “and I got sick last night, remember?”

The three of them recoil. Brian bites his cheek, he hadn’t meant for his tone to come out so sharp, but he couldn’t keep the lie in his mouth any longer. If he doesn’t complain about it will they think he made it up or that he isn’t taking care of himself again?

Last time they had set up shifts in his house for two weeks. Brian can’t have that happen again, not with how his nights go.

“You’ve been unusually agreeable about it too,” Freddie says, “first the medicine last night and now the willingness to eat. Is there something you’re trying to get on our good side for?”

“No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that wasn't as depressing as the other two chapters, I'm sure its fine!
> 
> As always, leave your thoughts and comments below or come talk to me on tumblr!!


	4. at night i try to make it out alive (i wish i sang a different song)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all ready?

Monday comes and goes in a cacophony of unpredicted thunderstorms. Brian’s neck hurts from sleeping at his coffee table last night, falling asleep while helping Roger remember amino acids and formulas. He doesn’t know how the study session turned into cuddling, but Roger had found his way into Brian’s lap and Freddie curled around John like a cat.

Roger had woken him up two minutes before his alarm was meant to go with partially made coffee. He took a sip only to gag at the graininess and then dumps the rest out when Roger turned his back. John walked with him to the bus – which is filled with awkward silence – they ride the same route anyway, and from their departure, like the storms, Brian feels something build inside of him.

When he stumbles into his flat it is a quarter after eight he is exhausted from his lectures, his hair is dripping, and his heart feels like it is trying to push through his sternum. He must work tonight, he is going to be standing outside in the rain and lightning, jumping at every growl of thunder.

“C’mon Bri, you’re a big boy.”

Thunder shakes the flat, and he dives for the safety of the underside of a pillow. Brian lets out a wheezing breath and pulls the pillow from the top of his head looking around the living room. For once he is glad Tim had moved out the day after he said he was quitting Smile.

Don’t forget to Smile! That stupid tag line that rings around his head in a harsh mocking tone, sounding a bit too much like words that flew around them the last few days of the band.

Tim had been a good friend but often unintentionally cruel. There are two knocks on his door and Brian narrows his eyes. He never expects guests on weeknights, often claiming that he must study or that he has work. Another rumble of thunder has him picking the pillow up and pulling it to his chest as the knocking intensifies.

Well _,_ he thinks, it wouldn’t be kind to leave someone out in this weather.

He shuffles to the door bracing himself and trying to count the seconds between the flashes and the growls of thunder. Brian doesn’t want to invite the thunder into his house. The knocking comes again the tail end of the latest thunder crash. He yanks the door open the second it is over, barely taking the time to recognize that it’s Freddie on his porch, before pulling him inside.

Freddie reaches up to stroke his cheekbones.

“Oh dear,” Freddie says softly, “bit rude they didn’t warn us of this.”

Brian nods his head, smacking his lips as he tries to get the words out of his sand trap mouth, “yeah. Why?”

“It’s it obvious?”

Thunder shakes the house and Brian pulls the pillow up to bend around his head. Freddie reaches up and holds it tighter against his ears, only loosening his grip when the thunder quiets.

“I have work,” Brian manages.

Freddie clicks his tongue, “can you even make yourself go outside?”

Brian tries to lock his knees as he feels the trembling in his legs increase. It had been fortunate enough to catch a break in the storms long enough to work up his courage to dash his flat. He had tried to walk when the rain was coming down, but two steps outside made him rush back into the safety of a building. Standing out in a street corner with cold rain pelting him and thunder trapping him in the tiny awning of his alley _isn’t_ appealing.

Then again, he has never tried to skip a night after making this new arrangement. They would understand, surely? No one wants to fuck in a lightning storm. Brian amends his thoughts, no one sane wants to fuck in a lightning storm. He knows John does, but John loves these storms and finds them relaxing.

“Brimi,” Freddie soothes, “just call them and say you’ve taken ill.”

He looks at his phone. Brian doesn’t have a number he can call to fake calling in. Freddie will hear the dial tone with his sharp hearing. Another bolt of lightning illuminates the dim hallway and Brian sucks on his lip, biting down on it and splitting the still dry skin at the horrid noise that follows. He doesn’t whimper, thankfully.

“Ah, I don’t,” Brian coughs, “I don’t need to call in. I work under the table anyway.”

Technically _,_ his brain chirps, you aren’t lying to him.

He offers a tiny smile to sell it. Freddie raises an eyebrow and then shrugs before gently pulling Brian’s white-knuckled grip from around his pillow and away from the front door. Brian follows because he is going away from the storm.

Freddie stops to pick up the blankets that ended up on his couch from the impromptu sleepover last night and another couple of pillows before shoving them under his arms. He grabs Brian’s hand again and walking further into the house. He tilts his head in curiosity before frowning when they stop outside of the bathroom.

“It doesn’t have windows, right?”

Brian nods, “but I don’t…”

“We’re going to stay in here until the storm passes.”

He opens his mouth, but Freddie is already pushing the door open and flinging the blankets and pillows onto the floor before pulling Brian into the room and shutting the door, cutting off another loud burst of thunder. Brian stands awkwardly as Freddie lights his last candle and then creates a nest on the floor in the tiny space underneath his towel shelving units.

“Turn off the light dear, and then come take a seat next to me.”

Brian does, still frowning in confusion. He crawls between the wall and Freddie’s body before resting his mid-back against the pillows. Freddie shakes out the blanket with a flourish and pulls it up so it's against their laps.

“We’re just going to do this?” Brian frowns.

Freddie pulls out what looks like a few candy bars from his pocket. Brian takes one and looks at the label.

“Fred!”

“Come now Brimi, the store won’t miss these.”

Brian huffs but reaches up to set the candy bar, and then the rest that Freddie hands him in the sink. He pulls up his knees.

“If this storm lasts all night, then this is what we’re going to do.”

“I have things to do,” Brian says moodily.

He burrows against Freddie’s shoulder as he hears the faint sounds of thunder. The wind whips against the outside of his building. Freddie shifts and brings Brian into a one-armed hug.

“Yes, but right now we’re going to be right here.”

Brian opens his mouth but then closes it, “okay.”

Freddie’s hand runs through the ends of his curls. There is a gentle pressure at his scalp, but it isn’t the painful tugging sensation that he has gotten used to. Freddie is warm and smells like cinnamon – he must not have smoked for a while he doesn’t smell a trace of nicotine. Brian rests his head against Freddie’s shoulders and slowly unwinds his arms, he places one across Freddie’s stomach. The perfect distance between romantic partners and looking to turn things sexual.

It isn’t quite platonic either, because two blokes don’t do this. Brian shakes his head. Roger would be the first to roll his eyes at that and proclaim that it is the 70s, and that it doesn’t matter. Brian’s father wouldn’t see it the same way. Would he hate him more for this or whoring himself out for a few extra quid?

He sniffles as the thought tears its way through his chest. Freddie tightens his grip, and he hides his face in Freddie’s jacket. Brian turns his head away and he is aware of how close he is to Freddie’s neck.

It would be easy to leave featherlight kisses there until Freddie is trembling and wanting to shove him to the ground. Brian closes his eyes; he doesn’t want to think about that right now. Doesn’t want to confuse his work with his feelings for his bandmates.

Brian huffs and it becomes a strangled sort of sob. He doesn’t remember what his feelings are.

“It’s okay Brimi, just a storm. We can weather it.”

“Bad joke, Fred,” his lips quirk up.

“Made you smile though,” Freddie rests his cheek on top of Brian’s head, “I’ve got you. Nothing bad can happen while you’re with me.”

He nods and curls his fingers into Freddie's soft shirt. What material is that? He wonders. His fist is above Freddie’s stomach, and he hopes that Freddie is taking the placement as seeking comfort.

Freddie is right, Brian knows that nothing bad will happen to him right now, at this moment. Except Brian knows that tomorrow once the storm has passed, he will see all the bad the world has from his vantage point of being knee-high in an alley.

Slowly Brian closes his eyes, hearing Freddie make murmurs of lyrics or hum melodies of soon to be forgotten songs. Freddie is never quiet, even in the worst moments Brian has seen – nervous fiddling with the keys of a baby grand and warbling vibratos as he mocks whoever insulted him last.

He lets out tired mumbles to Freddie’s hum as the storm slowly calms down outside.

* * *

Brian startles awake as Freddie slumps down further over the tub. Apparently, he had scooted down so that this head was on Freddie’s chest, and with the sudden shift in position he ended up in Freddie’s lap. He blinks and pushes away smacking against the sink. His arm tingles from the elbow down and he shakes out his fingers.

“Gah, not funny,” he grumbles rubbing his arm.

“Bri?” Freddie props his head up slightly, blinking sleepily “where at?”

“Sorry, confused for a second,” he replies.

Brian tilts his head listening for thunder and lets out a sigh, “storm passed.”

Freddie nods and pushes himself up from his spot. Brian joins him a second later making sure to pick up the candy bars from the sink. Freddie loops an arm around his.

“Your bed still has blankets on it?”

“Yeah.”

Freddie leads him out. Brian rolls his eyes, “you’re staying?”

“Storm might come back,” Freddie wiggles his finger, “you won’t send me out into the cold late night?”

Brian shakes his head. He wouldn’t do that to anyone now that he knows what the late-night feels like in February. Freddie crawls into bed first, preferring to be against the wall. He slides into the spot next to him, happy to be able to make a quick escape if the need arises.

Brian folds his legs under him, and Freddie settles in with the blanket pulled up high and lying flat on his back. He smiles and lets out a tiny laugh.

“What? This is how I sleep!”

“I know,” Brian nods.

“Then why are you laughing?”

“Remember when Roger thought you had died in your sleep?”

“I had a bruise on my chest for a week! I don’t know how he thought he knew how to perform chest compressions but whoever taught him should have their license revoked.”

“To be fair you socked him in the jaw,” Brian replies.

The morning had been a train wreck from start to finish. He and John had hidden in the corner watching it unfold, prepared only step in if necessary. Brian slowly lets the tension go out of his back and shoves his head in his pillow.

“This is why you have horrible knots in the morning. You should wrap it up,” Freddie picks up a curl.

Brian inhales waiting for the tugging, but Freddie lets it fall into his face. He blows at it, and he slides over his nose and back into the main tangle.

“No thanks,” Brian wrinkles his nose.

Freddie rolls his eyes before laying back in his mummy position, “a few extra minutes and you could look like a rock and roll god.”

He lets out an awkward huff as his cheeks heat up. At their small gigs, he feels strange and out of place, he can’t imagine what thousands of eyes would feel like.

“Maybe I just want to look like Brian?”

“Well, lucky for you, the two are one and the same. Darling, you were born to be adored.”

Brian bites his tongue because Freddie is looking at him like he is something precious. The tips of his ears heat up and he lets out an awkward cough. Freddie’s gaze moves away and to an emotion less painful.

* * *

Brian doesn’t remember he has the baggy until he brushes against it while looking for a pen. It is nearly time to go to work, he thinks as he checks the clock. As though someone might see he pulls it from the drawer with a quick hand, holding it in his fist tightly.

The others are all busy tonight and there aren’t any storms for Freddie to coddle him through. Brian glances around his room, spotting a partially broken hand mirror (at one point it had been Roger’s, and then in a fit of anger Roger had tossed into the wall, Brian hasn’t thrown it away) wondering if he can use the mostly intact half. Then he shakes his head.

Had he decided that he was going to do lines at all?

He looks at the clock again and his shaky hands. There isn’t any reason to waste it. He has been staying away from single-person stalls at university during the days and his mouth still remembers the stale mix of bottom-shelf liquor and come.

Brian opens the baggy and dumps it on his dresser, using the business card of some shady music executive – which Brian isn’t convinced he wouldn’t have stolen their kidneys or worse – to separate it. He pauses, wondering how much he should take. Is this one dose? How are these does one know how much to do? This has always been done for him.

He shrugs as he bends down to sniff the first line if he overdoses there are fewer things for him to worry about; like if he can make rent and buy groceries.

When is the last time he had gone to his bank? The question rattled around his mind mixing in with the second line before the third swiftly buries it. Brian closes his eyes and waits a few minutes. His heart starts hammering against his chest, as though he was in an echo box of thunder and his head grows fuzzy.

He looks at his reflection in the mirror. Swiping away the evidence under his nose and then licking at it when he doesn’t know what to wipe it off with. Brian unbuttons his shirt – this one is pink from a failed laundry attempt – and jeans he has worn to work many nights prior. Their knees are so torn that you can almost see the skin underneath it.

Brian slides his hands into his pocket and grabs a jacket before setting off into the night. With the powdered bliss sinking through his bloodstream, he finds he doesn’t care about the neighborhood eyes that follow him.

Even the strangers on the tube aren’t of any interest to him. Every thought he tries to summon gets covered like the first snow in winter. Not enough to hide the sidewalk underneath but enough that you don’t notice it. Brian hums and watches the people but doesn’t makeup stories or try and figure out who they are.

He doesn’t know what he was thinking about when he nearly misses his stop. Brian tilts his head, he had been deep in thought about something, but it has vanished. Something about snow perhaps? The storms from yesterday – likely because it had been an unseasonably warm day the day before. Was it Sunday? – has washed away the snowmelt and left the sidewalks clear.

The air is still biting and once more Brian wonders where his muffler has gone. It wouldn’t be worth salvaging now, three days in the weather. Likely being trampled on or kicked into the gutter.

He is glad that the path is automatic to him, even ignoring the calls of the Dealer and he thinks perhaps Peaches is hanging around too. Brian looks up in time to see the Towncar. He licks his lips and checks the street before crossing over it.

The driver is no different than the previous times, a pile of only three cigarettes opens the door with professional grace and shutting it as soon as Brian is fully inside. His Handler isn’t sitting cross-legged for once both are feet planted firmly on the ground. He doesn’t open his mouth but after a few moments of silence, he parts his lips as he settles between them.

His Handler grabs him by the jaw, a thumb digging in on one side and two fingers on the other. They squeeze and Brian fears that one wrong move from him will earn a dislocated jaw at best. He whimpers as the pressure increases.

Is this because he didn’t work last night? Surely, they don’t lose that much from him?

“Listen here, whore,” the man speaks calmly, it sounds as though he is discussing the weather over brunch.

“You don’t work unless I say that you are,” his Handler continues “don’t think I didn’t hear about your back-room fuck with that Dealer.”

Brian blinks. _That_ is what this is about?

“Your agreement is with us. You want to shove your face in drugs, you talk to me.”

His grip tightens. Brian prays that it doesn’t bruise – or worse make his jaw ache for the entire night. He pulls and Brian leans forward, his arse barely remaining on the ground. It is the first time he must have paid attention, but the shades his Handler usually wears are gone, stuck in the breast pocket of his jacket. He has bright brown eyes, but they are filled with a coldness. Brian shivers and he wonders if this man would even bat an eye and breaking his jaw.

“No more off-hour blowjobs. Got it?”

Brian doesn’t know if he should nod or answer verbally. The pressure releases and he falls back like a snapped rubber band.

“Got it,” he croaks.

“Good,” the shades cover his eyes again.

“Now to make this up to us, we’re taking an extra ten percent for tonight, and since you seem so keen on,” he taps Brian’s nose, before running his thumb over Brian’s lips, “I’m going to add a permanent fifteen percent onto your usually thirty.”

His mind is moving sluggishly, but it does the math fast enough, “fifty-five percent?”

“You can still earn what you’ve been earning. I’m working on a new job for you, so be early tomorrow night.”

Brian slides onto the leather seat and reaches for the door handle. The tone is dismissive enough and the rate they’re taking fees tonight, he will be lucky to leave with the cost of a convenience store sandwich in his pocket tonight.

“Oh, and make sure you don’t look like a drowned street rat tomorrow.”

He sucks in a deep breath. Brian hadn’t thought he looked bad tonight. Casual certainly, dressed for comfort and ease of access. As he stands and moves slowly to his alley, he pulls his jacket tighter around him. His muffler is draped over the lid of a trash can. The end fraying and torn and the vibrant color faded and running with the water dripping from it.

Brian props himself against the corner of the wall, watching a few drunk stragglers. There are tells in everyone when they are drunk, horny, or drunk and horny. The latter is always reliable enough for a fuck. He wishes there were more women out on the weeknight, he likes them more.

“Oi, you looking for a fuck?” A man calls.

He looks him up and down, broad enough that Brian could be twice his size and still not match his shoulder width. His hair is badly shaved on account of the large scar running down the side of his head. Brian tosses his head, revealing a pale neck.

“I could be,” he purrs, his voice is still shaky from the car, but he hasn’t sobered up enough to lose any of that powdered confidence, “if you say the right price.”

The man strides up to him. Brian tightens his eyes to not be intimidated.

“Ah you’re one of them types,” the man breathes.

It’s a sickening combination of old whiskey and stale cigars. Brian swallows and keeps eye contact, before slowly sliding his gaze down to the man’s lips with a playful smirk.

“I might be.”

A roll of cash gets shoved into his breast pocket. Brian scrambles to catch it before it falls to the ground. He slides it into the inner pocket of his jacket before looking back up with doe-eyed innocence. It is a look he and Roger usually give when they are planning a return prank against John and Freddie asks what they are doing.

“Wanna spread those legs for me? Bend over those boxes.”

Brian reaches down and pops the button of his trousers before shimming them down as he walks to the crates. He hopes the dry-rotted wood will be strong enough to hold against the rocking. Heavy footsteps behind him cause him to close his eyes and then his underwear is pulled down.

The man rubs the skin and hums appreciatively. Brian stretches his arms out to dig his nails into the wood. He can feel the damp wood sink under his nails, and he can only pray that he doesn’t get a splinter.

* * *

Brian finally is free from his last client well into the morning. He had kept adding more tenners into the pile next to Brian every time he would finish, and Brian finally too sober to forget his shame had accepted them meekly until the client let him drop to the ground on shaky legs.

He folds the cash and puts it into his pocket, barely caring enough to pull his underwear and pants back over his hips. He stares at his muddy reflection in a puddle as the cold air finally hits him. It barely looks like his reflection. His cheeks feel warm and his jaw hurts and his back hurts and each tiny flex of his hand he can feel the tiny splinters from the crates in his palms.

One of his classes would be starting soon. It is on the opposite side of town and Brian can’t find the will to get onto his feet. Shiny black shoes disturb the puddle and for a moment he thinks the police have found him. Only to look up and see his Handler blocking out the light of the sun. He doesn’t speak but holds out his hand.

Brian hands him the cash, the rough estimate is in his head from the moments he had to count between clients. He knows what he should end up with. Not enough to call the night successful with his handler and the mysterious ‘we’ take the majority.

“Remember, early and don’t look like you’re going to throw yourself off the nearest bridge.”

Brian summons just enough energy to scowl. The money is replaced in his hand, much lighter than before, and with it is a baggy, smaller than the one the Dealer gave him and a package with two tablets.

“Take these tonight.”

His Handler takes his leave. Brian shifts his legs so they aren’t splayed out to his side, but now in front of him where he can hug them tightly. He needs to go to class. The teacher is going over what is going to be on the midterm. Brian should go.

He crushes the money in his hand and vaguely wonders where the nearest bridge is before kicking at the puddle angrily. His Handler is just saying that. Brian doesn’t always feel like this, only when he is in this damn alley selling himself cheaply. But if he misses class then he might as well get used to this being his life. Now his socks are wet too.

Another figure blocks the sun.

“Oh, mon lapin. Come on up you go.”

Brian shakes his head, the will to move escaping him even as the crash from the cocaine washes over him. The high is so short and the crash is so long and shitty.

“You need something in you.”

He tosses his head more violently. No. No. It is morning. Nothing else in him. No!

“Then let's get you cleaned up, you’ll feel better, cher.”

Brian looks up. Peaches has her hands on her hips and the look in her eye and set of her jaw tells him that he isn’t going to get his way with this one. Not that he has gotten his way much lately.

“Clean,” he mumbles. Hands off his body. Clean off the hands.

“That’s a start, and then once you’re clean we’re getting you coffee.”

Brian desperately tries to remember how to tell her that he wants to go to class, that he _needs_ to go to class but the words are stuck under his tongue. Like Freddie two nights previously she takes his hand and he just wants to get away from the bad feeling.

Peaches makes sure his clothes are on correctly and then she leads him through the busy street. People scurry around in business clothes, sipping a thermos or trying to read through heavy file books with a piece of toast in their mouth. Brian notices a building that seems nicer than the rest.

“Ah, that’s supposed to be the new shelter,” Peaches says dryly, “a shelter for our kind. The people of the night.”

“People of the night?” Brian repeats.

“Degenerates are what some of the more conservative members of society might call us, but the night speaks to us in ways it doesn’t to them.”

“It is a new building,” he says dumbly.

“And unlocked,” Peaches nods, “come on then, Mr. Bigshot Millionaire should be happy that his building is helping the people it's supposed to. He wants us to use it. Wants us to _trust_ him.”

While the building is unlocked it is empty. Brian tightens his shoulders into a hunch as he notes the white walls and white tiles. They are pristine and the only marks on them are the flakes that come as the design on the floor. Peaches lead him through a few turns, as though she has been in here before.

They push open the woman’s restroom door. Brian opens his mouth to protest before shrugging. It is not like there will be anyone walking in on him.

“Sit on the counter, Bunny.”

Brian sighs in relief. The counter is gray marble. He pushes himself up, wincing as the splinters dig slightly. While Peaches digs through her bag, he folds his hands together and swings his legs. He focuses on how they feel as they succumb to gravity only for him to kick them back up again. His knees hurt and the solid counter causes his arse to burn, but he does not know what else to do.

Peaches turns on the water and he jumps as the stream echoes around the bathroom. Brian watches her run a towel underneath the stream before wringing it out. Where did she get a towel?

“I like your nails,” Brian says.

She pauses her movements. Brian thinks he heard Chrissie call her nails a French manicure once when they were still dating. Peaches has the same white top, but he supposes the bottom is not clear, instead painted a very dark purple, most of it chipped off.

She closes her hands before sending him a smile, “thank you, mon lapin. Let us get you back to looking as pretty as you are.”

Brian closes his eyes as the warm water touches his skin. It melts away the frigidness. As the night’s sins are wiped away from his face, he begins to shake. At first, he thinks it is because the cold is finally catching up to him, but then he feels Peaches keep swiping under his eyes.

“Christ,” he spits.

“It’s okay, cher. We all do this.”

He sniffles, “I…”

“I know. I know.”

Peaches continues to clean his face. He does not think he was that dirty, but he keeps feeling the rag under his eyes. When Brian lets out a long breath and opens his eyes, her tender swiping stops.

“This is a hard life,” Peaches wrings out the cloth.

There is some brown that escapes it, and she runs it under the water again. Brian reaches up to touch his face, noting that the skin feels puffy. He does not want to look at himself in the mirror.

“I hate it,” Brian whispers.

His eyes widened because he had not been able to admit it to himself but now a near stranger is wringing words from him as easily as she does water from the rag.

“Most of us do.”

Brian flexes his fingers into the countertop only for Peaches to grab the hand nearest to the sink and wipes her cloth over it. It stings.

“I do it because I can’t do much else until I get to New Orleans,” she taps on his palm.

“Yeah?” He splays his hand out for her.

Peaches replies, “that jazz always calls you home.”

“How’d you get into it?” Brian asks, he remembers hearing his first rock and roll album and deciding he wants to do that but better. With his own stories.

“Well, I was a backup player with a touring company. I was asked to tour with this American soul-jazz singer. Bluesy almost.”

Peaches pulls a nail kit from her bag and grabs a pair of tweezers. Brian winces at the tug on his palm.

“Got a few splinters, sorry Bunny.”

Brian hums and then jumps again at the second tug.

“I toured with him, and it was everything I didn’t know I wanted in music. The band manager promised me a place at his club if I could get overseas.”

“What happened?”

“The company I worked for went under you know with the bad turn in the economy, and then I couldn’t get anyone to hire a former saxophonist. No experience in _real_ jobs.”

He wonders if there were other things at play, but he keeps his mouth shut, craving the new information. John had taught him that its best to let someone speak first before asking every question under the sun, especially with topics that must hurt to speak about.

“I worked as a secretary for a year or two after that, but well those jobs started getting filled by those with college degrees.”

Peaches switches hands. He folds his now splinter free hand and looks at it. The scratches are still there and the palm red. His knuckles are cracked from the cold, but he learned early on that wearing gloves will just mean they are ruined by the end of the night.

“Anyhow a friend of a friend pointed me to a man she knew and well,” Peaches shrugs.

Brian nods. He has a similar story, but more like the man found him. Peaches seems to have a little more freedom than him, given that she is not always on the streets. He imagines his Handler will forgive him one night.

“Did you have any more men propose to you last night?”

“Sure did, three. One promised me a fancy mansion on the bayou.”

“Wouldn’t it sink?”

“That’s what I told him, but if I’m going to get over there, I’m doing it myself.”

Brian smiles. He wonders if she wants to get to New Orleans because she thinks the man still is holding a job for her or if New Orleans is synonymous with leaving this life behind. Like an album deal would be for him.

“Well, your hands and face are clean,” Peaches says, “that’s all the world needs.”

Brian shakes his head, his hair falling loosely but not tangled for once. He does feel better now that he does not have the dirt coating the pads of his fingertips. He wishes that he had a toothbrush of some sort.

“Do you have gum?” He asks.

“I’ve got mints,” she rattles the metal container.

Brian takes the two she dumps out and he sticks them into his mouth. The cool chill clears his tongue of the last taste it had – he closes his eyes and bites down on one of the mints to clear his head. Its daytime and this are not the place for those thoughts.

“And now, we get coffee.”

He leaps down from the counter. His knees whine but as he straightens up, they quiet again. Brian wants to go to sleep, too late to go to his first class of the day and his mind isn’t in the place to go to his second, considering that it used to be taught by the professor that caused his position to be cut.

Brian scowls. They had taken everything else away from him, ruined at least three other students' years. But he thinks bitterly, one comes from old money and another got picked up by a different professor _._ Brian sighs, _that_ professor had told him his galivanting with a guitar doesn’t make him worth the investment.

“Coffee it is,” he says.

Peaches doesn’t take his hand this time. Brian wonders if it is because it is approaching the lunch rush or if she is confident, he isn’t going to have a break down in the middle of the sidewalk because that would make one of them.

He looks up at the sunny sky. The weight from last night rolling off his shoulders but the dread for tonight settling in his stomach like bad prawns.

“Have a place in mind?”

“You’re going to love it, cher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peaches is lovely, she's fun.
> 
> As always, leave your thoughts and comments below or come talk to me on tumblr!


	5. i must have been a fool (a moment i could barely see)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back!

Brian doesn’t know what his Handler means by “dressing” up. He has a suit that Roger and Freddie had scrounged together when they got called for important meetings, but it seems too formal. He doesn’t dare risk choosing anything that might usually wear for his work nights.

Calling John had been a mistake too.

> _“Something dressy but not too much but not too casual but comfortable? What on earth are you on about?”_
> 
> _“The bar is having a special event tonight.”_
> 
> _“Well call Rog or Fred, they like to dress up.”_
> 
> _“They’re going to come_ over.”
> 
> _“Tragic, having to spend time with friends.”_
> 
> _“I know I haven’t been around John…”_
> 
> _“You’ve been around plenty, and you could have shown up at the exhibition. I’ve got to go.”_

Brian didn’t waste any time in popping the first tablet after that. He knows it’s probably a bad habit to start, but he truly hadn’t thought that John would _still_ be upset about him not showing up to his showcase. It seems such a minor thing for John to continue to care about. Brian didn’t need to work that night, but he wanted the money to take John out the next night.

That money has been in his savings can, untouched for weeks. One day he will get that fancy dinner with John – when he is sure it won’t be taken as a date by any of his bandmates – at least before he has chosen.

Brian is staring at the clothes with half-lidded eyes, idly scratching himself in thought. He pushes the clothes to the side of the closet to get to those few things he has been given by Roger, who deemed them too out of trend to remain in his closet.

There is a lowcut silk shirt, white with partial ruffles on the sides and he can cover it with that weird patterned-velvet jacket that has a cluster of embroidered flowers on the pocket.

Something Roger would only wear to a “meet the parents' dinner,” when he wants to be classy but still rebellious and fashionable.

Brian settles for his older pair of slacks, knowing that they won’t survive the grime. They’re a bit too tight around his waist and ride up on his ankles, having grown four centimeters his first year of college. He puts the second tablet in his pocket and hurries out of the door.

It is barely past 8 pm when he steps onto the train. It is running three minutes behind, and at this semi-decent hour, Brian is forced to stand and hold onto the railing. Two teenaged (or at least he thinks that is a secondary school uniform) point and giggle at him with blushes on their cheeks.

He ignores them but they don’t stop talking about him the entire time they ride together. Brian wonders if that is because they find him particularly handsome or if that is what teenage girls do. Not for the first time he resents going to an all-boys secondary school.

They get off not too long before him and it is only as he steps onto the platform that he wonders if they were making fun of him. Brian tilts his head. Strange. He doesn’t know when his brain flipped from worried that people were laughing at him to being confident that they were interested in him.

Is it confidence? So many people pay to fuck him these days, that it is all he thinks people notice him for.

He walks slowly to the car. Ignoring the call of the Dealer’s “I have a good deal.” Brian swallows the second tablet when he sees the car and wanders over to it, not bothering to check for traffic. The driver opens the door, only one cigarette butt is on the ground, and he shuts it when he gets settled. Brian turns to look at him only to see him climbing back into the driver’s seat and starting the engine. He looks to his Handler who is checking his watch.

“Good boy,” his Handler purrs.

Brian recoils at the tone, “what is going on?”

“We’ve decided to change up our business partnership.”

“I haven’t agreed to it,” Brian replies.

“I think you might.”

He crosses his arms but a bump in the road nearly sends him into the back of the chair in front of him. Brian reaches up to hold onto the handle before looking back at his Handler.

“Explain.”

“See, common street whores don’t get people returning,” his Handler shrugs, “you do. Which means you’re more valuable. It would be a waste to not use that.”

“So, you’re selling me?” Brian spits.

His Handler laughs, “yes, but it is not any different than what you’ve been doing. Only an arranged client and a prearranged price. Already paid in full. You get fifty percent of it, plus any tips.”

“Last night wasn’t valuable enough for you?” He narrows his eyes.

“Last night was _punishment._ This is just business and this way you will be spreading your legs on a bed. One client a night. It is better all around.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have taken that second tablet. Brian holds his head trying to focus on the words that the man is saying.

“Safer too. Won’t get yourself roughed up like you have been. We have a strict no bruises on the merchandise policy.”

Brian scowls but it fades. It would be nicer. A bed, one person, and probably the money won’t change that much. It does seem like a better deal. Which means there is a catch he isn’t seeing.

“Fine,” he spits, it isn’t like he will change this man’s mind. Brian doesn’t have the will to argue anymore.

“Good.”

His Handler reaches out his hand. Brian takes it and they shake. He has the slippery feeling of a rope going around his throat again, like the night he let the Dealer fuck his mouth.

“Now, you’ll keep coming to that same spot. No point in changing.”

His Handler reaches over and directs Brian’s lolling head over to him. His entire body feels warm and it is hard to keep his focus on the words coming out of his Handler’s mouth.

“Pay attention,” his handler mutters something like _stupid slut._

Brian doesn’t flinch. The word becomes truer with each day, at least Brian accepts them more.

“I go to the same place,” Brian slurs.

“But not every day. I get you at the end of the night. Drop you off and leave you with a date and time for your next one.”

Brian straightens his back; it sounds like this could become a day job too.

“Don’t worry, they’re all going to be keeping around the same hours. Unless you want to work full time.”

He shivers at the wolfish grin and shakes his head vigorously, or tries to, his body is moving slowly. They way this man makes this sound like a legitimate job makes him sick. It could be the drug, he supposes, wondering what he took and then he wonders why he didn’t ask any questions. It is odd as he feels like a prisoner in his own skin.

Everything about this life is becoming so normal to him. He doesn’t think that his Handler would do anything to ruin someone he considers to be valuable property. Brian also knows now that he has done it for several nights in a row – he doesn’t want to be sober for this.

In the beginning, it was a nice way to not care and feel, but he thinks for his sanity he shouldn’t be sober for any of this.

Brian closes his eyes and almost falls asleep as they drive. He makes sure to keep his face away from the window, unsure of where they are going, but he does know they are heading into the part of town that has the more law-abiding nightlife.

They drive for what feels like ten more minutes before they come to a stop. Brian leans forward with the force of it. His body is limp. Alarm bells ring in his head. He doesn’t know if it is because the dose is too strong, or he took them too close together. Maybe he was supposed to save one?

He is guided out of the car by the driver and taken up the steps to a fancy house. It doesn’t seem like any neighbors might be peering through the windows or maybe this happens often enough that it lost interest. The driver knocks on the door.

Brian is greeted by a pretty woman. She wears her red hair up in a fancy bun, the Queen had her hair styled something like that last week. He is glad that he doesn’t feel like he can roll his eyes. She is wearing a long blue robe with sheer fabric and fluffy purple cuffs. Freddie would probably – no. No bandmates.

She also has a long cigarette holder, and the scent hits his nose. He gags slightly but he doesn’t think she noticed.

“Really? He looks half asleep,” the woman arches a brow.

The driver grunts, “we did what you asked.”

She hums, “well, good to know you keep your word. This isn’t cheap you know and harder still to get my husband out of the house for the night.”

Brian doesn’t think the driver cares much about the woman and her husband. Their marriage doesn’t work either if she is hiring someone like him to entertain her for a night.

“But next time, leave it out.”

The driver grunts again. He pulls his support from Brian and he slumps but catches himself before he falls onto the porch. Brian is ushered into the living room. His limbs still feel heavy, but the cigarette smoke is slowly making his heart rate rise.

Roger had mentioned something about dogs drooling every time a bell was rung because they thought about food – stop thinking about your bandmates, Brian. Focus on getting tipped.

“We will get straight to it,” the woman says, “get yourself ready and I’ll be in the room down the hall to the left.”

Brian nods and sits on the couch before his hand slips down his pants. He doesn’t feel any attraction to her, despite her being a shapely and lovely woman. Any other time he might be interested in her, but every emotion is so far muffled by whatever he took.

The drug makes him feel like he is easy to use.

Once he starts aching in his hands – hard from nothing more than stimulation – he follows the woman’s directions. She is laying on the bed, the robe opens now revealing matching panties and bra. She looks up from the book she had been reading and snubs out her new cigarette.

He sniffs and the smoke buries deeper into his head. A few embers are clinging desperately to the ash. The smell thickens.

“On your back, pants off.”

Brian closes his eyes and unbuttons his pants. Being shoved against the wall is easier than this because he doesn’t have to see him. He lays against the soft bed, a nice change from the alley, and his bed at home. She pulls the robe off and leaves it to pile onto the floor.

He opens his eyes and sends her a charming smile. It is time to work after all.

* * *

Brian does not go to school the next day either. His head throbs like he had too much to drink last night but he knows that he had not drunk anything. He pushes a few coins into a vending machine that is a block away from his flat – he does exist outside of work people can see him as he walks down the street – and he spends that walk trying to convince himself that he is fine. The _clunk_ of the vending machine makes him lean his head against the buzzing machine.

See _,_ he says to the voice that sounds a bit too much like his mother, I’m figuring it out! He bends down and pulls out the soda.

Brian wrinkles his nose and decides his argument falls apart when he considers “paper or plastic?” a proper conversation. He had gone into the store and bought random items that looked appealing and were cheap, just to remind himself that there are other people. The jerky he has no idea what he is going to do with but the package of biscuits he might like.

He tells the voice that sounds like Freddie that he just needs to rest.

The bag crinkles as he wanders back to his flat.

* * *

He switches out his books every day, knowing that he might go to school in the morning. His attendance has been spotty, but it is easy enough to blame it on the band. They are arguing about one more slot on the demo record but haven’t been able to meet up because Brian has “work.” The screaming match between him and Roger had made sure that they don’t chase after him. Truthfully, he doesn’t remember why the debate had gotten that bad.

His new schedule leaves him more time at night to stare at empty walls. The baggies from his Handler are piling up in his drawer. He doesn’t know what he would do with the manic energy they bring. Brian worries that he would wake up and see his house in disarray or having contacted that shady executive and sold his kidney.

He rests his head against the back of the couch and stares at the ceiling. His body aching and his mind grasping for a way out.

* * *

Brian works at night. He might go to school in the morning, begs off phone calls with the band unless they’re _Important_. He doesn’t know how to see them outside of the studio or gigs and slowly he stops going to their studio time – he cuts out early or arrives far too late to be any use for the session.

The first time Brian uses cocaine outside of work (and he wonders if he stops treating it like a dirty word if it will stop being appealing), it is exactly four weeks after having been given his new “promotion.” At least that is what he told Roger when he came banging on his door asking what had been going on with him.

That same night he pours the powder out on his coffee table with nowhere to be but out of his mind. Brian sniffs it with now practiced ease. No longer coughing at the slightest tickle and only wiggling his nose to clear it out instead of hating the sensation.

He leans back against the couch waiting for the high to kick in. His hands trailing down his body, distantly realizing that he hasn’t gotten off for himself in months.

He slips his hand underneath his sleep pants. Closing his eyes and thinking about how Freddie’s brow furrowed as he glanced down his body. There had been a spark of worry, but when Brian looked back the gaze seemed clinical – hiding the fact that he wanted Brian, probably. That is what his clients do, the ones that think they are too good to have to pay for sex.

He touches his cock. His hand doesn’t feel like his own. The callouses are softer. Brian plays guitar every day, but it is the hour that he had spent on it every day since he was given his first acoustic. The one he pretends he doesn’t know his father used his savings for their holiday that year. It would feel wrong to not practice.

Without the callouses though it doesn’t feel like his hand. He can picture twenty other men who could have their hands down his pants. People that paid him to act like he wanted to be fucked by them. Brian rips his hand out of his pants and folds it behind his head falling into dizzying hyperawareness with no focus.

* * *

“Brian!” John greets with genuine surprise when he opens the door, “fancy seeing you here.”

Brian looks down to the ground.

It is Scrabble night at John and Veronica’s flat. Brian still doesn’t know how that works. John and Veronica having split up after a very intense relationship, but they still act like the best of friends. He certainly couldn’t do it; Chrissie hates him, and he is starting to feel like his bandmates might too.

“Yeah,” Brian knows he doesn’t have anything to say.

He doesn’t know why he is here either. It might be the unknown number of lines he took a half an hour ago but tonight he is feeling like he can be with his bandmates and feel like he did before everything happened to him, a night where he can pretend that he hadn’t fought with them or abandoned them.

“Sorry,” he adds after a probably too long pause.

John has an eyebrow raised, “come in then.”

“I brought drinks,” Brian holds the bag up.

It is a fancy bottle of wine that he got as a tip instead of cash and Brian doesn’t know anything about wine stores to sell it properly and dealing with a fence is probably too much work for something so small.

Freddie eagerly grabs the bag while kissing Brian on the cheek in greeting, “hello dear. Glad to see they realized they’re running you into the ground.”

Brian shrugs.

“Oh my!” Freddie gasps, “where’d you get the money for this one?”

“It was a gift,” Brian says instead, “helped someone out and that’s how they repaid me. Since I don’t drink wine when it isn’t with dinner… figured you would like it.”

“I’ll drink enough for the both of us.”

Veronica walks past the entryway, “oh! Brian, I didn’t know you were coming, I’ll go make some more snacks.”

“I didn’t call.”

Veronica stares at him, and furrows her brow, “are you alright, love?”

“Tired,” he says, and it is the first thing that he said is a complete truth.

“Mm, well its low pressure you know – and Freddie you don’t guzzle fancy wine! You sip!”

“But it is fancy wine with illegal alcohol content in the UK.”

Veronica laughs and Brian huffs, his chest feeling looser than it has in days.

“What about illegal alcohol?” He hears a faint voice call from further in the house.

John stands to the side, “no use in letting the heat out.”

Brian nods. The weather is still just cold enough to warrant the heat, mostly because it has turned to the rainy season. The warm summer showers are still a few months away. John puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. Brian can barely feel it through the thick layers he put on to hide how much weight he has lost. It hasn’t shown on his face yet, thank god.

“I am glad to see you,” John says quietly, “the radio silence was – Oh! I have something I want to show you.”

“Sure, let me say hi to Roger first so I don’t get bitched at all night.” Its something he has said before but it feels foreign on his tongue now.

They walk into the living room. Veronica has a card table stacked with homemade biscuits and other treats, including some fried snack-type dinner. Brian snags a raisin biscuit, because he does love them, and it would be weird for him to not want any. Rude too. He grimaces, wondering how often these went uneaten when he didn’t bother show up.

Roger looks up, his lips parted, and there is a line between his brows. Clearly, he remembers their last meeting as much as Brian didn’t care to. He watches Roger swallow, and the expression softens.

“Hey, Bri, glad to see you.”

Brian smiles, “yeah. Missed you.”

Roger hums and nods his head, accepting the olive branch, “sticking around?”

“Yeah, Deaky has something to show me?”

Roger’s eyes light up nudging Freddie who is cradling the wine bottle like a newborn as Veronica sets up their wine glasses.

“I know you aren’t a fan of wine, but do you want to try it tonight?”

“I will,” Brian nods his head, “but not a full pour.”

Veronica raises her hand in acknowledgment. John leads him further into his house. Things haven’t changed much. Veronica has added two more of Freddie’s strange paintings to her wall. He thinks they must be what certain opera pieces make him feel – that had been what he was working on last – but to Brian, they look like splashes of color and lines. If he squints and tilts his head, he might see a supernova.

As stares at them, the lines seem to be moving. He shakes his head and nope they are still moving. Brian turns to call John’s attention to them, only to see that John is down the hallway. Brian shuffles quickly after him, ignoring the feeling of the paint crawling off the canvas. Here he thought cocaine just made you energetic and not hallucinate.

“So, you will get to test it out this weekend,” John says as though he had been talking for a while, and then rushes out, “ _if you show up.”_

“But since you’re here, might as well get an idea of what to do with it.”

Brian nods, “right this is the official demo recording session.”

It feels like it should have been done earlier, but it felt like someone always had a reason – and Brian didn’t have his amp.

John nods, “yeah. If this works as it should.”

“What’d we decide on again?”

“Seriously Bri, your memory is worse than my grandma’s,” John laughs, “Keep Yourself Alive, Great King Rat, Jesus, and Liar.”

“Yeah,” Brian bobs his head.

Now that John has said it, of course, Brian remembers the conversation. He had been sitting in the studio with a bottle of water on his aching head because for the first time he had a client on Saturday and that had been two weeks. Roger had been pissed about him missing band bar night but still getting hungover.

He almost shot back what he had been doing instead. Freddie had rubbed his temple as they had a quiet discussion, with Brian able to hide his uncharacteristic lack of care behind his headache.

“I take it you haven’t apologized to Rog?”

Brian grimaces.

“Yeah, it was a bit much, he is worried about you,” John stops outside of his music room, “we all are. You’ve not been yourself.”

And how long did it take you to notice? He thinks bitterly.

“Stress. I… you know.”

“If you hate the bar job quit it. It was never your scene anyway, Bri. Ronnie has been telling me about a slot for a librarian, part-time, opening up at her school.”

Brian bites his cheek wondering what he would have said in the past, “I’ll think about it, John.”

“It’s not as good as the money you seem to be making, but it’s healthier for you. You look sick half the time and the other half we don’t see you.”

“What is it you had to show me?”

John rolls his eyes but opens the door. His Rickenbacker is leaning against the chair, which is strange because Brian at least knows John replaces everything in its proper spot. It looks like it had been used with a strange amp. He moves towards it; the shape is boxy but sleeker than the top of the line ones he sees in catalogs.

The knobs look beat up and there is strange staining on the top of it. A panel is slightly warped to the side, but John has something heavy trying to smooth it out.

“It’s getting another panel, that one is shit.”

“John?”

“Right. Surprise!”

“An amp?”

“An amp for your guitar,” John amends, “since I… since the other one was broken, and I couldn’t fix it. I made this one. Red should like it.”

John starts listing off the specifications and the sounds and just about everything Brian used to be excited about. He reaches out to touch the dingy thing, it has a lingering smell of garbage. Brian sniffles and presses a palm to his eye.

“Bri? Didn’t know you were that attached to your amp.”

“No. This is nice. Thank you.”

John places a hand on his back and rubs awkwardly, looking around the room as though searching for Freddie or Roger to help. He changes tactics and pats Brian on the head.

“It’s the least I could do. I owed you an amp and you owe Red something really special.”

Brian sniffles and tries to rub the tears away. He shouldn’t be that emotional over a guitar amp, but here he is. It is the first nice thing anyone has done for him in a long time. Nice in the way he doesn’t have to worry about why they are giving him something or what he did for them to be nice about.

Lately, he gets gifts so people can make sure that he won’t talk to the press about their affairs and hiring a prostitute. He wouldn’t either way. It would ruin his current job and not to mention he would get caught in the crossfire and then probably bring the band down with him before they got off the ground.

John wraps an arm around him and hugs, which only makes Brian cry harder at the sensation. It is a gentle hug, not looking for anything more. His skin crawls at the pressure and warmth.

“Er. Bri?” 

How are you going to get yourself out of this one, huh _Bri_?

“I’ve had a shit time.”

Well, he can pat himself on the back for not lying this time.

“Since my job got cut, I’ve just been getting knocked down again and again and I just feel,” he spins his hand, cutting off his train of thought.

He wants to say he feels worthless, but at the very least his body has worth. He tucks that knowledge under his heart.

“Brian, I didn’t, we didn’t…” John says.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says automatically.

John clicks his teeth. Brian tenses prepared for the two-word annihilation, but to his surprise, John simply walks out. Brian stares at the door, unsure if he should follow. How did he piss John off that badly? He doesn’t think he said anything that offensive.

He shuffles around the room before deciding that he will sit in the wicker chair until someone explains something to him or until Veronica chases him out of their home.

Brian bites the skin around his nail. The callouses are looser now and starting to peel along with hangnails. He has been washing his hands more and they are drying out. Lotion is a silly expense when for some reason he is still living from paycheck to paycheck. Well, he makes barely over half the rent in two weeks and then the rest goes into keep himself fed and the lights on. Also, fees for classes he is rarely in.

Freddie and Roger are pushed into the room with John striding in behind him. Three sets of determined gazes fall on him. Brian glances at all their faces, noting the open body posture and slightly longing looks. Roger pushes his hair behind his ear and Freddie offers a nervous smile.

If Brian had eaten more than just the raisin biscuit, he would be getting sick by now. He raises his hand to scratch the back of his neck, praying that he is misreading what is about to happen.

Maybe it is just another hallucination caused by cocaine. It could be laced with shrooms or something. Can you powder shrooms? Actually… Brian frowns do you just eat a whole raw mushroom? That seems a bit gross.

John snaps his fingers.

“Brian, we have something to tell you.”

Panic surges in his throat and he blurts the first thing that comes to mind, “please don’t confess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well  
> next chapter should be fun.  
> As always leave your thoughts and comments below or come talk to me on tumblr!!


	6. i listen to the same thoughts (can we talk a minute?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back.  
> Latish update beause school kept me from doing a final edit and I was also lazy playing video games.

The room is silent. Brian wonders if he can just will himself into nonexistence. Roger’s lips are pressed tightly together and Freddie’s jaw is hanging open and John’s head is tilted to the side with his browns so close together they nearly form one.

“Wait…” John starts.

“You knew?” Roger blurts, “you knew we had feelings for you?”

Brian looks anywhere but their eyes wondering how he is going to dig himself out of this hole. Maybe, if he pauses long enough they are going to let the dirt fall on top of him and crush him. He doesn’t want to have this conversation ever, but he doesn’t want to have it when he can feel his high about to crash.

It just seems a bit rude if all other parties are sober.

“Brian?”

He squirms in the chair and uses his hair to protect him.

“Yes. I’ve known. For a while now, actually.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” and “So you don’t return the feelings?” topple over each other. He tries to pick out the speakers, but it is hard to focus with his heart hammering in his throat.

Instead, he looks up, Freddie hasn’t picked his jaw up from the floor yet. Brian watches him, worried. Freddie and quiet go together like the silence in the middle of a storm.

“I can’t choose?” Brian blurts, then grimaces.

No one says anything. Brian bumps his head against his knee wishing that he could go back in time to come up with an excuse to not be in this room with them.

“Can’t choose what, Brimi?” Freddie says finally.

The softness of his voice wraps around Brian like a blanket. Like they did before during that day of terrible thunderstorms. Freddie can calm him like no other. But John can keep him in the present like no one else. And Roger grounds him when he starts getting to lost in his thoughts. All of them are things he wants and might need. He doesn’t know what he does for them other than make them worry apparently.

He pushes his lips out, forcing the words from them, “can’t choose only one of you.”

Roger crouches in front of him, easily push through his mop of curls, the drummer’s callouses on his palms cause Brian to peek out from the back of his knees.

“What if you didn’t have to?”

He isn’t sure he is breathing. The throbbing in his head tells him for the moment he is alive. Are they proposing that they pass him between the three of them as a toy? He shivers at the thought of cold bedsheets and wondering who his partner is going to be the next day. He can’t – he won’t.

“Brian!”

John’s voice pulls him out of his head. He inhales sharply – his body collapsing in on itself as he gets the oxygen he was depriving it of. His heart is still hammering and his hands trembling. He doesn’t feel any hands on him and when he looks up Roger is kneeling but his hands are up in surrender and to the side. John’s hands are on the seat but no further and Freddie hasn’t moved, watching him with a strange gaze.

“Brian, what is going on in that head of yours?”

“Ah, I’d,” he swallows the words getting caught in his throat, the room is spinning and he spits up the words like they burn, “I would rather pick one than just be a thing for you to pass around.”

He doesn’t miss the way Roger’s eyes narrow and how his lips press into a thin line, “Brian, you aren’t a thing to be passed around.”

He knows that he is property. A business deal to some people.

“No, Brian, no,” Roger repeats his eyes wide and shaking his head slowly, “no.”

He looks up confused at the distress in Roger’s tone, “whoever told you that – _who was it?_ Some bloke at the bar? God that’s the biggest lie I’ve ever heard.”

Brian knows that is not true because he knows what the biggest like Roger has ever been told is. Roger wouldn’t believe it anyway. Lying only matters when you know that they won’t question it. Instead, he shrugs, the answer won’t satisfy any of them but what else can he say? Telling him what he has been doing is impossible, if simply because he doesn’t want them to know. They won’t see him as the Brian he used to be.

The Brian he might want to someday be again.

“Brian,” Freddie says, “that’s not what we meant. The four of us, we’re good together. Great. We work in ways that we shouldn’t.”

“Four misfits,” John says softly.

“So…” Brian lifts his head, “the four of us together. Exclusive between us?”

“Exactly that, dove.”

He feels his heart burst through the ice. Brian has wanted this, a way to not chose. Here it is, in the simplest and best solution. They would all have each other. As he shifts in the chair, there is a curl of pain up his lower back that reminds him that he doesn’t get to make this choice.

Not right now.

It could be the four of them together or it could be him with none of them. It will be the three of them because Brian _can’t._

“You three are good together, you should have that,” Brian begins with, “but right now, I can’t.”

Freddie’s face falls, “Brian? What’s wrong?”

“I’m not in a good place,” he swallows.

Brian closes his eyes, “to have a relationship. Right now it wouldn’t be… good.”

He knows that he can’t work and be with them. It isn’t fair _._ He has seen what secrets do to relationships, the very first woman that he was booked with ended up divorcing her husband not long after that.

Them breaking up would mean the band, and the band is the only thread he has to get him out of this hole he has dug – the other hole – if he doesn’t decide to let it bury him first.

“Then we’ll wait,” John says, “we’ve waited this long already.”

“You shouldn’t wait for me.”

“Brian, I told you, you aren’t a thing.”

“No. I don’t know where my head is at most days. I would _break_ this. I can’t do that. You three right now can work. You should let it work.”

He folds, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Freddie lets his hand over Brian’s, long enough for him to pull away if he needs to, but Brian doesn’t.

“Nothing bad will happen when you’re with me,” Freddie reminds him.

“But something bad might happen if you’re with _me.”_

Roger raises his hand, “you aren’t saying never, right, B?”

Brian feels the ice frost over his heart again. It hurts like breathing in bleak November air, “I’m not saying never.”

“Okay,” Roger nods, “then once you’re ready, okay?”

Brian nods, “I’ll tell you.”

Roger pats his knee before standing up and giving him a tiny smile, “okay, you still owe me a round of scrabble though.”

“Yeah, give me a few?” He feels his face twist into a smile.

John lets his fingers ghost over Brian’s shoulder before leaving the room. Freddie lingers a moment longer before nodding his head.

“See you in a bit.”

Brian nods and holds his head in his hands letting out a shaky breath. He doesn’t cry, which is a surprise to him, considering how often he cries these days. Instead, he replays the conversation in his head. Several times. Thinking about how quick they were to reassure him that he wasn’t a thing.

Brian hasn’t felt like a person in a long time.

He looks towards the door. The realization pours down his spine like lava. They hadn’t confessed to him. He had told them not to, and they hadn’t given what anyone would consider a true confession. Although, he supposes he knows their feelings they didn’t _say_ them.

Instead of sobbing, he bites down on his hand to stop the noise. He focuses on his breath hitting the back of his hand and closes his eyes. Brian tries to remember how he acted on scrabble nights.

With a smile, tight enough it causes the dimples under his eyes to make it look genuine, he stands and lets it rest naturally before going back to the main room, and grabbing another raisin biscuit as he sitting himself the proper distance between Roger and John because Freddie likes to cheat.

* * *

Brian does not take the tablet this time. He watches his Handler out of the corner of his eyes, wondering what his name is. Is it something stereotypical like Al Capone? Something bland like Jack? He sort of looks like an Edward.

He moves his head away from his Handler, who he is sure will question why he has been staring the entire time. Then his Handler will notice the white powder still under his nose. He dabs it with the corner of his sleeve. Brian looks out of the window. They are tinted dark enough that someone who sees his face probably won’t know it is him.

Brian knows he is getting careless.

The car slows and Brian shifts, thinking that they are almost to his client for the night, but no, this is the middle of the street. The flashing red and blue lights of the police explain why they are going slow. He also notices a kid with a sign. Brian leans forward and squints he can just make out ‘hungry’ in the scratchy handwriting.

The kid strikes something familiar in his brain, Brian vaguely recalls another teenager wearing a hat like that, pulled low to cover his face as he planned a purse snatching. It feels like eons ago that he saw it. He frowns wondering if that kid was stealing for the thrill of it or if he was just trying to steal enough to buy a loaf of bread.

Why hadn’t that kid gone to the fancy new shelter that lets everyone leave with a free meal? Brian closes his fists, remembering Peaches gently wiping the dirt from his palm as he sat on a counter that probably cost more than his rent. She had said something about trust, hadn’t she?

More importantly why were there police surrounding him? Surely, they weren’t going to arrest him for begging for money because he was starving? Oh god – what if he starved to death right there? That is not a thing that happens, is it?

“Poor sod,” his Handler says.

Brian cranes his neck to watch the scene as they slowly pass. He wonders if he will read about in the paper or if everyone will continue with their lives unaware. Although if it isn’t in the paper maybe that means that he survived.

“There is no ambulance,” Brian says twisting back around to face forward.

“Not yet,” his Handler says, “they’re probably coming.”

It seems like a long time between the police arriving and the medical professionals. Maybe it had been misreported by the caller? He crosses his arms and tries to focus on his job the night. Forgoing the tablet might have been a mistake.

If he asked would they tell him anything about the client he is meant to entertain? Would it be a man or a woman? Probably a man, if he had to guess. Would he be gentle or callous? Brian instead looks out of the window as cracked streets turn to smooth pavement. Sad window boxes filled with cheap annuals and weeds turn into small yards of well-kept bushes, flowers that he can’t pronounce.

Not that he is surprised. These days he lives the life of luxury in the shadows and by indulging in expensive taste in the bedroom. Brian knows the feeling of high-thread-count sheets as they rub against reddened nipples as a client shoves into him from behind.

He pulls down the sleeve of his button-up. With his laundry overflowing, he has no choice but to wear the clothes he would have worn to his previous job. It would be easier to burn the entire basket but if he did that he would have to spend hundreds of pounds to replace things. One day he will have the energy to do laundry properly.

His mum wouldn’t believe a spontaneous fire either. Brian hums in confusion as he thinks about the last time that he called his mum… actually when was the last time they had spoken in person? Christmas, he thinks, when he had plans to keep this a temporary thing as he searched for a job over winter intermission.

Would she be able to tell? She would have to, right? She is his mum after all. What if she couldn’t –

“We’re here. Do put a smile on your face.”

Brian pulls his lips back. It feels more like a grimace, but he slowly pulls it into a flat smile and it must be a passable one as his Handler nods. He opens the door with a _pop._ He straightens the wrinkles out of his shirt.

The driver guides him up the stairs. Escorting him with a firm hand on his back. For what reason? Brian wonders, it is not like he could run away. He doesn’t know what street they are on.

When the door swings open, Brian is hit with the smell of scotch. Hot hair brushes against his face like breath, but the person is leaning too far away for that to have been the case. He looks at the face of his client and he narrows his eyes. A tickle in the back of his head makes him feel like he knows this man.

“Right on time,” the man slurs.

Oh! Brian focuses on his face again. He knows that voice, it is the “lawyer” from the alley. At least he hadn’t been wrong in assuming this man has a well-paying job.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Brian rolls his eyes at the firm business tone. As though him being there to get fucked is an inconvenience to the client.

The driver gives Brian a firm shove, and he has to flail his arms to not fall into the body of this client.

“Brunch tomorrow,” the Driver grunts.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got the case files.”

Brian steps into the house, keeping his face neutral and ignoring any more of the conversation. He looks around, the house is filled with expensive things. Solid oak and shiny trim. The other houses he works are filled with fancy named things too, but this feels more like a museum.

The walls are stained with the scent of scotch, he is practically gagging on the thick smell of alcohol.

He feels the lawyer’s hand wrap around his wrist, his hands are clammy and there is an uncertainness to the grip. They navigate the furniture, Brian sucks in air, to not disturb any of the décor. He bites back a whine as the grip becomes more firm and borders on bruising. The noise would not get the man to loosen his grip, it might even encourage bim

When they cross the boundary of the bedroom, Brian is pushed back against the wall. The small of his back is pressed into something that makes his chest arch uncomfortably into his client. Hands lift his arms above his head by his forearms. Tight and demanding. The man leans in for a kiss, but Brian turns his head in time for the kiss to land on his cheek instead.

The rebellion is small and he can’t keep dodging the lips _all_ night, but the satisfaction that curls in his chest is one he savors. Brian knows that the kiss will taste like anyway.

“Too bad we can’t leave marks anymore, you bruise so prettily.”

Brian bites back the choking fear. He had been promised this was safer. There must be some kind of punishment for breaking the rules, this man had no reason to hold back before. All the bruise softening paste he has gone through trying to hide those bad nights in the alley, make him just a little grateful to his handler.

This is safer, he reminds himself, and this must be what his Handler meant.

The client pushes his arms against the wall and watches Brian’s face expectantly, so he flutters his eyes to fan the flames of lust.

* * *

Brian leaves early in the morning. The sky is battling gray and pink and the air carries the forbidden chill of the night. He is sore and slightly intoxicated from bad scotch. Well, the scotch was probably expensive but it slid down his throat like medicine. It leaves a stale taste in his mouth, maybe because that’s what this one did or perhaps because he sucked cock after his third glass to “loosen” up.

Every time he works mostly sober he is reminded why he hates it.

The paper is propped up next to the door, bundled and tied neatly, he grabs it. The stairs are slick, and he wondered when it rained and when it got cold enough to freeze again, as he clings to the railing for dear life.

As usual, the driver is waiting for him three blocks away. Brian slides in the back of the car after checking that there was no one else braving the morning. His handler is reading his copy of the paper and Brian pushes his under his thigh. After a moment he holds out his hand. He watches the man’s eyebrow twitch and Brian frowns. His Handler looks at the outstretched hand before snapping the paper as he turns the page.

Brian clears his throat, not quite brave enough to ask for his money directly.

“Ah, you won’t be getting paid tonight.”

“What?” Brian snaps his mouth closed.

“That was a favor,” his Handler says, “ah, I don’t know why Manchester is looking for a new striker…”

“I didn’t agree to that,” Brian says.

He didn’t agree to be used as a bargaining chip in this strange game that this man and the other seemed to be playing. Whatever illegalities they’re doing he wants no part of.

“You didn’t,” his handler replies, “but you didn’t disallow it.”

Brian scowls and the car starts. With it is any chance of getting out and walking away in protest. He might just end up making a fool of himself because his Handler probably would be glad about not going out of his way to drop him off again.

“I need the money,” Brian says.

“You’ll make it. Now be a dear, and quiet down.”

Brian wrinkles his nose, “I will not – _you_.”

His jaw snaps shut at the twist in this Handler's head, and the hand that cups his jaw softly. Brian pales but tries to keep his expression annoyed and determined.

“I do believe I told you to quiet down.”

“And I agreed to do this for pay.”

His Handler hums, pulling his hand away by dragging it down Brian’s throat, and closes the newspaper, “fine.”

Brian preens, happy that his stubbornness got him his payment. His Handler reaches into his chest and very slowly pulls out a metal container, no larger than a standard wallet, and passes it over to Brian.

“Compensation for your time,” his Handler says, “now drop it.”

Brian gingerly opens the lid only to shut it immediately. It is the size of a wallet, he notices again, and filled to the near top with white powder. A cigar tin of cocaine. He presses his lips together, wondering if there was a way to sell this.

How would he even go about it? How much is this even worth?

“And consider that an advance for the next times we do this arrangement.”

He looks at his Handler. Brian opens his mouth to protest that arrangement but then shuts it. What can he say? That he won’t? What’s stopping them from dropping him in a river for his refusal? Maybe he has already pushed his luck too far with the payment.

Yeah, Brian thinks, he will bring it up later.

They drive for several more minutes before they pull to a stop near the entrance to a tub station. Brian slides the container into his pocket. It weighs him down like lead. Now he won’t have to worry about his supply running low and rationing it as he has been.

He grabs the newspaper which is warm from where it had been under him and steps out into the brighter morning. As he goes to get out his Handler presses a note into his palm that is still upturned in the seat. Closing his fist over it he completely exits the car.

A few people heading to work eye him as he does a walk to shame to the ticket teller, cursing himself for leaving his tube pass in his flat for the third time this week.

He opens up the paper as he waits for his train to pull up, reasonably on time five minutes past its scheduled arrival. Brian lets out a tiny surprised noise as he realizes that he won’t be working for the rest of the week.

“Bastard,” he spits and balls up the paper before slipping it in his pocket.

He raises his eyes to the ceiling wondering how badly this is going to hurt him this month. Rent has already been made, and he buys groceries weekly – he has half a jar of peanut butter and whatever leftovers Freddie has “forgotten” in his fridge. Wait… had Freddie visited this week? They had been on strange terms since the near confession. He chews on his nails, he honestly can’t remember.

There is some money that he squirreled away for band funds – money for strings and drumsticks and skins should Roger or John ever need it and even money for his and Freddie’s dream stage wear. Brian holds his stomach; he doesn’t want to spend that money on himself yet. What if the strings on Red _do_ break? Freddie is on the trail of some wedding dress designer who supposedly wants to branch out. He still has the money for John’s congratulatory dinner.

Besides… he isn’t hungry if –

The train screeches into the station and Brian slides to the side to avoid the trickle of people stepping onto the platform before squeezing in between the closing door himself. He reaches up, praying that his shirt covers the faint marks on his arm (they will fade in a day or so he thinks) and glances down at the paper in his hand.

The front page is plastered with large type **Direct Rule crisis in Northern Ireland** _._ Brian winces and skims over the article praying that the violence will die down with the firm hand – he supposes it might go the other way. He looks up when he hears two men arguing over the front page too. They use hard political terms and he wonders if they’re part of parliament or just informed.

There is a long column down the side of the front page, discussing the Prime Minister’s response to the entire crisis. Roger will probably have something to say about it, having held kitchen table sermons about the entire thing. Brian can’t quite remember where he falls other than having nothing but contempt for a strong military response from the English government – not that believes in the IRA’s bombings either.

He flips the paper over to something he hopes that doesn’t go over his head quite as much as messy politics.

A big fraud trial is set to begin tomorrow, the convicted man is plastered in black and white, he looks like every other middle-aged man Brian has ever encountered. It doesn’t seem like he had served in parliament but among his lists of crimes are those of bribery.

Strangely, it doesn’t say what company he worked for – or even if he is a self-employed man.

He looks up when the train starts slowing down, unsure of where he had gotten on at. The line is the one that he uses, which thankfully means the stops are the same. Brian bends his back and peers through the crowds hoping to see a direction sign before the announcer speaks.

The staticky voice of the conductor fills the car. They hit a bump at the same time the screech on the track from the breaks drown out the mellow male voice. Brian sighs and continues to strain his eyes looking for some sign.

He doesn’t know if he wants to go home yet or go to class. This place is near enough to the middle that he can decide when he reaches fresh air. Brian allows an elderly woman to exit the car before him.

“Brian?”

He shifts his gaze looking for whoever called his name – well it might not be someone he knows his name is common after all. When no one calls again he shrugs and sticks his hands in his pockets as he falls into the beat of the crowd.

* * *

Brian walks into his flat, placing his coat on the hook. The tin can smacks against the wall and he digs it out of the pocket and drags his aching body to his room. The tin can goes into his drawer next to an untouched box of condoms and a nearly empty bottle of lube.

The paper crinkles in his hand as he tenses. Brian pushes the drawer shut and sits down on his bed. He sits up thinking that he will leave grime on the covers when he realizes he doesn’t work outside anymore. He allows himself to fall over the side of the bed, his back stretching and popping over the hard mattress.

Brian’s head just barely hangs over the side and his toes still touch the ground. He stares at his guitar case from this angle.

“Wonder what you think about this?” He asks her, “late nights used to be spent with you.”

Brian closes his eyes remembering the strings of inspiration that would lead him to crack the callouses on his fingers as he works through a melody in his head. Now inspiration comes when his head is full of coke. He can play their songs as well as ever – better with the Deacy Amp. Freddie’s commented that their recordings are sounding flat, lacking spirit.

He taps out a rhythm on the crinkling paper, narrowing his eyes. There is still the song that he has yet to play. It is lodged in the back of his head like a radio commercial, but Brian wonders if he can ever do it justice now. His emotions stay firmly away from everything.

When Red doesn’t tell him to change his ways he sits back up and unfolds the newspaper. The first page is ignored as he flips through political drabble and advertisements. He reaches the crime. Someone had their store broken into, a drug bust not too far from the corner where he used to work, another mugging. The woman’s death goes unsolved.

Nothing about a boy starving on a street corner.

He rips through the paper to get to the obituaries, his hands starting to sweat and leaving ink residue on his fingers. There are many names he doesn’t know, much older folk, survived by their sons and daughters and grandchildren. The odd young death too – battles with diseases and misfortune.

He doesn’t read about any boy dying. There isn’t a mention of it either. Brian tries to remind himself that he doesn’t know that the boy died, but he thinks about the slow-moving police officers and the boy’s slumped over posture.

“It was fairly late, maybe this paper went to print already,” he says.

Brian sighs. That is right. Most of this paper had been things discussed on the nightly news yesterday. He doesn’t know when papers are printed for the day, but he knows that there has to be a cut off time. It would make sense to cut the time off when most people had gone home for the evening.

He tosses the paper into the corner of his room and lays out flat, pressing his hands to his eyes and trying to breathe. Why does this boy matter so much to him? Is it the simple tragedy of his death?

Brian stares at his wall at the to-scale constellations there. His eyes trace from the painted summer triangle to Cygnus to Orion creeping down the side. He drags his gaze over them, perhaps twenty times, before giving up on them giving him answers either.

When he sits up his head spins, he holds his hand to his temple and tries to steady out his breathing. It doesn’t help and he feels his stomach twist. Brian narrows his eyes, is he hungry? Going to be sick?

The dizziness fades and so does the feeling in his stomach. He pushes himself out of the bed and moves to the kitchen, throwing open the pantry to see that all he has stored is a few packs of saltine crackers he had stolen the last time he went out for lunch and the lone jar of peanut butter.

He checks his fridge. A sad bottle of beer lays on its side on the bottom shelf and there is an open but half-eaten take-out container on the shelf above it. Brian shuts the door and looks at the clock on the wall. His lecture will be well and truly over by the time that he reaches the campus, and he doesn’t have another one today.

This used to be the day his longest period of office hours were. Brian reaches to the top of the fridge and pulls down a biscuit container. It still has the lingering smell of the biscuits his mother had sent home with him for Christmas, but more importantly the money he had been saving is rolled up nicely.

He grabs the wad out and weighs it in his hand. The amount is unknown to him, just that he had been trying to save enough to keep the band out of trouble – plus Deaky’s congratulatory meal. Brian slowly undoes the band. He doesn’t count how much is there in total, he suspects no more than a month's rent, maybe a month and a half’s.

Brian counts out the money that is reserved for Deaky. He stares at the bills and then scurries to his room. There is a single index card on his otherwise perfectly clean desk, the rubber bands are in the first drawer in a small rubber band ball, courtesy of a bored Freddie and a long study session.

The notecard only remains blank for a second longer as Brian scratches on: _John’s dinner_ and after a moment of thought, he adds the date that he had meant to take John.

A wave of cold air washes over him, fingers dig into the sides of his hips. He remembers the feeling of someone slamming in him from behind. Brian wonders who it had been. Is it worse that he can’t remember the face of the person who he fucked instead of celebrating one of his best friends?

Brian shakes his head at that thought. Friend is not quite the word. If they love him and he might have feelings for them (he does but he doesn’t know how to explain how he feels about them) but haven’t said so is that friendship or something else?

“Doesn’t matter I suppose,” he says to the room again.

Titles and labels don’t matter, he reminds himself. Brian makes his way back downstairs to rebind Deaky’s money and drop it into the container. He looks at it, forgetting what it had been a design of. It is a Santa hat. Dull red and the handle to the lid is the cotton ball at the end, the jar something he has seen for years and it feels weird that he is just realizing what it looks like now.

His wallet only has a few coins rattling around in it since he had to buy yet another tube pass. Brian pulls out a twenty and rewraps the rest and then he replaces the biscuit tin on the top of the fridge.

After putting on his coat and tucking in his muffler in the opening of it, a new muffler one that he had stolen from a client because the rain had been pelting the ground as hard as hail. It is more Roger’s taste, brightly patterned and soft to the touch and is probably a very expensive fabric.

Brian opens the door.

“Deaky said he saw you _getting off_ at the station where he usually gets on,” Roger says, he is leaning against the wall his breath and cigarette smoke mingling together into a cloud, “I told him no way Brian would let work mess with his classes.”

Brian looks away.

“So, care to explain why you made a liar, Brian May?” Roger drops the cigarette and crushes it under his heel.

Well, at least he doesn’t have to keep smelling it, Brian thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm
> 
> As always, please leave your thoughts and comments below!


	7. if no one cares how can they blame us (i should probably try to sleep)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, sorry for the delay, I just didn't have time to edit this week. Please enjoy!

“Do you want to go to the store with me?” Brian asks instead of answering, his lungs stuttering in panic.

Roger huffs, a cloud of breath curling upwards. He looks like a dragon preparing to blow flame, but he sticks his hand that had been holding the cigarette into his pocket.

“I suppose.”

“My cupboards are bare,” Brian explains.

“Really?”

Brian frowns at how Roger drawls out the vowels. It doesn’t sound like he is surprised in the slightest at Brian’s confession. He puts his foot on the first step.

“You let your plant die,” Roger kicks at the reddish-brown planter, “forgot to take it in so now the pot is cracked.”

“I had other things on my mind.”

Roger shrugs, “I thought it was on your fridge list.”

He turns around and stares at Roger, pursing his lips. The fridge list had been a way to remind himself of small things that he needs to do, things that are important enough to matter but no so important that he dwells on them.

“Although, I guess you haven’t had one since… January?” Roger taps his chin in thought.

Brian jogs up the steps, regretting it as he remembers what had been done to him last night. Roger doesn’t see the wince and Brian feels bad using his friend’s poor eyesight against him. Then again Roger is picking up the trail of something, their fight no longer a threat to their friendship… romance?

“What are you saying, Rog?”

Roger jogs up beside him, balancing easily and not having to cling to the railing for dear life like Brian. Those stairs will kill him, he has said it more than once. First set to ice over and last to thaw. Not to mention their steepness.

“Nothing,” Roger shrugs.

“Do you want me to pay your bet debt off to Deaky?”

“What?”

“You didn’t put ten quid on it being someone else on the tube?”

“No,” Roger is staring as though he doesn’t understand why Brian would ask that.

Brian takes long steps as he walks down the sidewalk, towards his neighborhood grocer. He should have made a list before coming this way. Roger would have knocked after finishing his smoke and Brian couldn’t just leave him out of the cold, but Roger in his house would only put the drummer on the right path.

“The bar is making you work until 8 am, from 8 pm?”

He bites his cheeks, “some nights.”

“Why’s that?”

“New – er – they’ve got some new drinks they’re teaching us to make.”

“Uh-huh,” Roger catches up to him, “y’know, I’ve never gotten the name of the bar you work at.”

“I must have told you.”

Roger nods, his eyes catching Brian they’re staring right into him, beautiful blue, but he doesn’t know what Roger is feeling, “you must’ve.”

Brian nods.

“But it seems I’ve forgotten.”

Brian fights the shiver. In their entire relationship, Brian doesn’t think that Roger has forgotten a single detail about him, even small things like how he likes to put his right sock on first. Roger hums the opening notes to one of their songs and Brian’s eyes dart around the street looking for some kind of way out of this.

“Well,” please let this sound right, he begs _,_ “at least I know you won’t be dropping in unexpectedly.”

Roger grabs his wrist. The grip isn’t tight and Brian could break away, but it is full of intention. Brian turns around to face him, “what?”

“That’s my line.”

Brian pulls his wrist away and crosses his arms. He feels the tiniest swell of stubbornness, the urge to say no bubbles to his lips. The control is heady.

“What is going on with you?” Roger asks, and his voice breaks.

“Huh?”

“Brian something is – something big – is happening with you. I just want to help. Deaky and Freddie just want to help.”

“And if it’s something you can’t help with?”

The feeling of being argumentative rushes the heat to his tongue. He stares at Roger, hoping that he isn’t going to take too much of what he has given away.

“Then we want to be able to support you, Bri – you’re,” Roger clicks his teeth together, “you are slipping away from us.”

“Roger…”

“Sure getting laid off fucking sucks, worried about keeping a roof over your head takes a lot of energy, so we were quiet. You suffer in silence, we know that Bri, so we waited for you to come to us.”

Brian looks away.

“And now you’re staying out at a bar we don’t know the name of – where you’ve gotten mugged and I talked to one of your classmates, by chance, and they said your attendance has gotten spotty.”

He looks back at Roger. His eyes are shining and they are warm and welcoming, and they pleading that he gives anything. Brian closes his eyes and thinks about the hands that have been on him. The cocks that have been in him. All the things he has done to keep a roof over his head and food in his stomach.

Although he is failing at that last bit.

Roger won’t love him after he tells him that. How stupid his desperation had made him. Brian feels like he is walking down a street with lights scattered so randomly he doesn’t know where he will end up.

He does know though: he is going to end up in the back of a black Towncar.

Roger is still staring at him. Brian’s silence is getting long. He can feel the silence fill up in between them, growing and growing like water filling his lungs as he is drowning.

Brian swallows the water.

“It’s been rough,” he says softly, “I just am so exhausted.”

Roger deflates and reaches out to him, “why don’t you lean on us?”

“Because all I’m going to do is sleep in your bed,” Brian says.

“Then we know your safe, Bri,” Roger strokes his thumb underneath his eyes.

“Yeah,” he breathes. He holds the hand to his face.

The callouses are rough against his cheek, but the pressure is soft. Roger is ready to drop the contact the moment that Brian wants him too. Brian wonders how much Roger would want to touch him if he knew about the sex and the drugs.

“Let’s get you groceries,” Roger pulls his hand away, “you look like you’ve lost even more weight.”

He has.

“Hey, I’m not _that_ skinny.”

“Sure, Bri,” Roger loops an arm around his, but his eyes are still piercing, “why are you so exhausted?”

“Just feeling lost,” he replies.

* * *

Roger makes sure he fills up his shopping cart. Brian’s face falls the more food is put into the basket. He does at least make Roger agree to grab things that have a longer shelf life – managing to avoid most of the meat he wants Brian to buy.

He remembers when his objection to animal products had been moral and not because it would spoil in his fridge. Roger does win the battle for milk and butter, however.

“You like milk in your tea and butter your toast for breakfast,” Roger drops the package in the basket, “so of course, you’re getting some. We’ll get the cheaper stuff if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Brian shakes his head and presses his lips together, that isn’t what he is worried about, but at the same time, it is an easy out.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Sure, what are friends for?”Brian doesn’t miss how Roger’s lips move awkwardly around the word friends.

Brian tries to create a smile, he thinks at least one corner of his lip quirks up, “I suppose grocery shopping is as good as any pub crawl.”

“Exactly!” Roger winks, “besides, now you have my favorite packaged biscuits.”

He closes his eyes slightly but then opens them. It’s Roger saying that he wants to spend more time with Brian, not anything more. They had promised that they would shelf that conversation until Brian was more comfortable.

“And John’s too. Multipack.”

“Ah, so you lot can break into my house again.”

“Not Freddie, he’s trying the sugar-free thing.”

“When did that start?”

“Yesterday?”

“Ah. How long will that last?”

“Tomorrow?” Roger chuckles.

Roger reaches out and drags one finger down the back of his hand. Brian rolls his fingers and shifts his grip on the shopping cart, but Roger sticks it back into his pocket and looks ahead. His sunglasses sitting askew on his head. He bites his bottom lip before reaching out and straightening them.

“They were,” Brian shows the shift with his hands.

“Thanks.”

Was conversation always this hard? Brian looks at his full cart, hoping that most of this food isn’t going to go to waste. He tilts his head just enough that he can see Roger out of the corner of his eye. Roger is watching him with a strange look, there is tenderness in his eyes but concern on his mouth.

They pay for everything, Roger somehow slipping more bills into his pocket, so that when he goes over his twenty-pound limit he can still manage to purchase everything. He would have dropped the milk and survived, his eyes narrow at Roger, but he is holding two paper bags in his arms and scurrying out of the door before Brian can protest. He thanks the cashier and he rushes out of the store.

“Roger!”

“Bri it was a few quid,” Roger replies, “I’m not going to starve over that. Not like you seem to be trying to do.

“I’m not.”

“Right, okay,” Roger snaps.

They walk in angry silence back to the flat. Brian keeps ahead of him by a few seconds, adjusting the bag in his arms every few steps. Only for Roger to catch up and swap his bag for the much lighter one of bread and cereal. Roger raises a brow but Brian knows an argument now won’t change anything.

Brian had forgotten to lock the door, so he pushes it open with his hip. Roger makes a noise.

“Really? Your door is that easy to open?”

“It is when I forgot to lock it.”

“That’s dangerous, Bri.”

He shrugs.

They walk into the flat. Brian kicks off his shoes and hurries to the kitchen, where his pantry door is open, declaring how low he had been on food. Roger is only a step behind him.

“Christ, Bri, this is worse than last time.”

Brian shrugs, “probably.”

“Don’t you care?”

“Sometimes I get food from the bar.”

Which isn’t that much of a lie. Some clients will offer him toast in the morning or a biscuit as they get used to each other’s presence. His Handler had warned him that he might be forced to do a date with someone soon, which he imagines will involve a full dinner.

Roger hums, “well, let's get this sorted.”

Brian starts emptying his bag as Roger does, but before he can open his mouth to say how he wants things set up, Roger has already put things where they’re meant to be.

“Ah, you remember.”

“Course I do,” Roger replies, “I’ve stolen your food before and you’re a creature of habit.”

Brian nods and sets the cereal on the shelf above Roger. He is careful to suck in his stomach to keep from brushes against Roger. A hand wraps around his forearm and pulls it down. The cereal falls to the counter with a sad _schwack._

“What’s this?”

Brian glances at the fading red mark around his wrist. It isn’t distinct enough to be a hand, but it's in too strange of place to be much else.

“Just a mark,” Brian pulls his hand away.

Roger tightens his grip the slightest amount, barely a flex of his fingers, before letting Brian take his limb back.

“Weird mark.”

“Aggressive patron,” Brian snaps back.

Roger narrows his eyes, “whatever you say – oh did you know that Ronnie’s school still hasn’t found anyone to fill that position yet?”

“I didn’t.”

“Pay is good. Hours too. You’d have weekends free so plenty of gig time.”

Brian nods, “huh.”

“Brian, just apply?” Roger tugs his hand through his hair, “worst that happens is they don’t call you back, the best is that you get a job you might care about.”

“I’ll think about it. I have to walk in to get the application?”

“Ronnie can grab one for you.”

“I should maybe go myself, make them remember me.”

“Ronnie has one for you,” Roger blurts.

His teeth click shut again and he furrows his brow to the corner of the wall.

“Roger?”

“It’s not like that Bri.”

“Really? What’s it like then?”

“We’re trying to help you. We have no idea where you’re at anymore. Not in class, not at home. Your head is barely there during recording.”

“So what? I’m helpless?”

“No, you’re just…” Roger sighs, mumbling something under his breath, “it seems like you’re _stuck_. Working a job you know won’t fire you and not looking for a job that might reject you.”

Brian grinds his teeth. Roger raises his palms skyward.

“We’re trying to help, Bri. All we have is the application, we didn’t fill it out. The position has been open for months.”

He shakes his head. Roger takes a step back.

“I’m gonna leave you alone,” Roger looks to the door and then back at the now stocked pantry.

“Think about it, okay? Just stop trying to be a stranger.”

Brian nods. He presses his lips together tight enough that they must be turning white. Roger’s tone sounds tired, “get some rest?”

“Yeah, I’ll take a nap soon.”

Roger nods and takes another step back. He looks again at Brian, as though he doesn’t want to leave. Waiting for Brian to say that it is okay that he stays. Brian can’t say that. It isn’t. He wants to be alone.

After another minute where Brian does nothing but stand awkwardly in his kitchen does Roger finally leave the house. Brian licks his lips.

_“Stay,”_ falls past his lips like the gentlest flake of snow.

That easy, huh?

Brian puts the cereal back into the cabinet and closes it. He collapses the bags and puts them next to the rubbish bin under the sink. Slowly he picks up any trace of Roger from his flat, including the wet leaves that he tracked in on the wood floor. Brian reaches into his pocket and pulls out the date and time slip.

This time when he takes his coat off he drapes it over the back of his couch and goes to his bedroom. The paper gets set on his clean desk. His movements are jerky, feeling like he is being controlled by an out of practice marinate puppeteer. His fingers fumble with the nightstand drawer.

He pulls it open and grabs the tin. It is cool to the touch now that it hasn’t been in his pocket. Brian moves back over to his desk and sets it in the middle of it. Then he stares at it. Every time he goes to dump some out he can hear Roger, begging for answers. Begging for Brian to come back.

His fingers tap against the wood.

Closing his eyes and filling his head with his late nights that Roger wants him to be done with. He some of the powder between his finger and thumb, it slides through his grasp and piles on the table.

Why can’t he give up these nights? He hates this. Brian has admitted it. He wishes that he could be doing something else. Wishes that he could just walk out of this door now and go over to Veronica and John’s and fill out the application.

He uses his finger to sort the lines after he pours more out of the tin. They are messy, one is thicker than the rest. For a moment he pauses. How does he know that he is not going to end up a convulsing mess?

While the realities of the underworld are only barely illuminated to him, he does know enough to be wary. How much was he even supposed to take?

He doesn’t use the entire tin at least.

Brian pushes any more thoughts about Roger or Freddie or John out of his head. Pinching his nostril shut he leans forward and inhales.

* * *

When he comes down he is vaguely aware of the amount of time that went by. He looks at his finger which still has some powder smeared across it. Brian shoves it into his mouth and wipes it in the upper pocket of his gums before pulling it out and wiping it on the mattress.

The sob startles him.

He wipes at his eyes, careful to only use his sleeve. Brian looks at the clock, relieved that he hadn’t lost that much time. It is well into the next day as his nose aches as it did after the first few days of having it broken.

His chest aches as he sobs. What had he done? Clearly gone on a mild bender. There is powder on his nightstand and desk and his pants are strangely sticky. Snatches of his high filter through his brain but otherwise he doesn’t know what he has done for the past twenty-seven hours.

Not dealt with life. One emotional visit from a friend is too much for him these days. Brian stares at his toes and flexes them, trying to remind himself that he is inside of this body. When he had he decided to sniff blow until he couldn’t feel his brain, he hadn’t meant to go so far but the crash scares him.

He stares at the tin, which had been nicely shut and sobs. The tears run down his face and the sobs tear at his throat which aches too, Brian touches a finger to it and presses. It doesn’t hurt on the outside. He takes his palm and rubs it underneath his nose.

The seconds tick by and he sits in bed, one leg stretched out and the other folded underneath him. He keeps wiping his sleeve over his eyes and leaning back on his other arm. Thoughts are forming below the surface. He can feel them like tiny rumbles before the storm, none are the quick flashes of lightning.

He stares at the tin on his desk.

His desk is now covered in white powder when it had been covered in white pages. Messy with texts of stars and lyrics and anything else that he was curious about. Brian swings his leg over the bed. Limping as his foot sends tiny pricks up his spine from being asleep.

He grabs the tin and tosses it into the drawer again. The mostly empty lube bottle is next to the trashcan and the unopened condoms are scattered all over the floor. Some still secure in foil but others lay half unfolded on the carpet.

What had he been planning for with so many condoms? Brian narrows his eyes… when had he stopped making clients use them is the better question.

He runs to the bathroom, slamming his knee into the side of the sink as he coughs. Nothing comes up but spittle. Brian coughs some more and then leans back with his head facing the ceiling. Most had agreed to wear one especially if he provided it. He always wears one with the women.

As Brian pushes away from the sink, he barely remembers to grab his wallet and put his shoes on before he leaves. He closes his eyes at the bright light of the evening. What does he look like to these people? Brian stops and goes back to lock his door this time.

He digs his hands into the pocket of his pants. The hair on his arms stands up as he makes his way to the tube station. A few people point and probably whisper about him. Brian shakes his head and increases his pace. The orange light of the setting sun casts everything in that color, but when he looks up at the sky, he sees the purple of night.

The chill of the air becomes stronger once he steps into the station. He starts shaking as he tries to warm himself up. Luckily, he had his pass from earlier and he navigates the rush to the train he needs.

Maybe he should have brought a hat or worn a jumper? John had spotted him this morning – no yesterday morning – as easily as anything. Brian steps onto the train when the last person leaves, he has to squeeze through the shutting doors. They leave him no room but to stand.

This time there are no girls that giggle or strange would-be thieves or unfortunate women or businessmen. He makes a mental note to get a paper as he watches an old man read on puffing away at his cigarette. Brian leans against the pole, dizzy as he realizes that several people are smoking.

Hands grab at his scalp and thighs.

He wants to learn about the boy and what happened to him. Brian stares at the paper, unsurprised to see that the Irish Crisis is still taking up the majority of the front page and that he can still see the same greedy looking man on the back. His trial was supposed to start today right? Or was that yesterday? His brain skitters around thoughts like a trapped spider.

Brian keeps his head against the chill of the pole, fending off a headache and smacking his lips as he realizes how dry his throat is. The train loses and gains passengers, but never empties.

“You’re looking a bit green, dear,” an older woman says to him as she reaches for the loop to balance herself.

“Trains,” he says and then gestures vaguely.

The woman nods in understanding and then digs out a book and begins to read. Brian goes back to massaging his forehead against the pole. Its no longer cold to touch, but the smooth surface offers him some relief.

He keeps his ears primed for the stop that he wants but he doesn’t try to make up the story for the people that he sees or exists in the same space as him. They probably don’t do that for him, only the woman had noticed him.

When his stop is called he is the first one out of the door, nearly running into the waiting crowd. Brian thinks he manages a tiny apology as he weaves his way to the outdoors. People get out of his way or they call after him, using some strange insult.

He reaches the air and inhales it, happy to finally be smoke-free. Brian looks around, he doesn’t think he has ever seen this part of the city in the light before. Although it seems more muted gray than anything with how low the sun is on the horizon. The street lights haven’t kicked on and people are making their way home or perhaps to arrive early at a club.

Brian sticks his hands back in his pockets and shuffles aimlessly down the familiar path. He is careful to not make any eye contact with people who could have been past clients. He doesn’t want to work tonight.

Well… he doesn’t want to have his Handler’s wrath focused on him for working off-hours. He still feels the fingers around his jaw. Brian kicks at some rubble. He almost misses the snow but he knows that the rain will soon become just rain and the dangers of winter will recede.

He stops at the alley. It is empty for once. The pot smell is gone and any hedonistic teenagers having abandoned it.

“Got picked up,” a voice calls from behind him.Brian turns around to see Peaches leaning out of another alley, one that he had already passed.

“Oh, I wasn’t – I was looking for you.”

“You gonna pay, Bunny?”

“Not – not like that. I guess you’re working.”

“And I guess you need help.”

Brian nods his head and takes tentative steps towards her. He tries to gather his thoughts line them up in a neat presentation as though he was going to defend his thesis and not what a wreck his life had become.

Peaches welcome him to her alley like she would welcome him to a home.

“What’s on your mind, cher?”

“How do you get tested?” He blurts, his cheeks are hot.

She lefts a brow, “you think you got something?”

“No. I’ve been stupid.”

Peaches nods, “there’s a private clinic not too far from here. The doctor is the discreet sort. Cash payment gets your real confidentiality.”

“Can you show me?”

Brian curses, he should have put more money in his wallet before coming this way.

“I will in the morning, hun, working now.”

He nods, “right. Sorry. Forgot.”

Peaches runs her eyes over him. Brian looks at her. She wears a dress with a shimmery fabric. Her legs must be cold and her toes too as she stands in her high heels. A shawl protects her arms.

“Here,” she pulls out a piece of paper from between her breasts and then a pen from somewhere, and he doesn’t know how she even stored it.

“This is the address. Closed now, but in the morning,” she reminds him.

“Thanks.” he puts it in his pocket.

“Hey, have any money? I’m running a bit low on,” she taps her nose.

“Nah, I don’t have any on me,” Brian replies, the statement true for both answers.

His head throbs, “good luck tonight. Be safe.”

Peaches frowns, probably in disappointment. Brian rubs his thumb along the seam of his pocket.

“Wait,” he calls once he has gotten several meters away.

Peaches beckons him closer again. Brian is sure to keep his distance. If she’s lucky clients will already be prowling about, Brian doesn’t want to ruin that being a male in her presence.

“What is it, cher?”

“There was a boy – homeless maybe? He there was a bunch of police around…”

Everyone working these streets always knows about why the police have been sniffing around the area. Brian knows that the paper might not have the answers for this random boy, but the street will know.

“That fancy new center comes too late for some,” Peaches says sadly, “kid got kicked out of his home for being a gay, and couldn’t get in with the right crowd to stop himself from dying.”

Brian winces. The sadness in her voice is truthfully more sadness than he was expecting. These streets are hard, and Brian’s found that empathy and sympathy only come from your closest associates. He also knows the importance of getting into the right crowd.

“That’s…” Brian presses his lips together, scared of saying the wrong thing, “unfortunate.”

Peaches nods, “young one, too.”

He tries to make it make sense.

“Hey, mon lapin, why are you doing this? You seem smart enough to do anything.”

“I – I needed the money at first. A lot and quick. Now – I don’t, I don’t know.”

“Think about it, cher,” she purses her lips, “get out before the streets call you home.”

Brian wraps his arms around him, “alright. Good night. Stay safe.”

She waves him off and Brian meanders down the street. He doesn’t know where he wants to go now. Home seems to be a bad idea, he licks his lips as he thinks about the tin on the desk.

Going home wouldn’t be the worse thing, he thinks. He wouldn’t have to think about unlucky abandoned teenagers. Brian leans against the wall as dizziness crashes over him. The kid was sentenced to death because he loved men.

Brian is surviving by getting fucked by them.

He puts his hand in his mouth and bites down. There will be a ring of teeth marks on his palm in the morning, but he doesn’t care. He feels the chill grow more violent as the night grows darker. Sleeping out here would be a death sentence and he can’t believe there would be anyone out there in the world that would make their kid live in it.

Brian had gone to the streets to make sure he didn’t die cold and starving in the streets. He had been lucky enough to be pleasing enough that people wanted to fuck him. Lucky he had been old enough to make it a less horrid crime.

He drops his hand from his mouth. Yeah. He shouldn’t go home, but he needs money for the clinic tomorrow to make sure that he is clean. Brian’s stomach turns as the uncertainty grows.

Brian goes back to the tube station, walking in a drug-haze without having taken any. His hands stay in his pockets, hiding the bite marks but not hiding the blue on his arms as the air is given free rein.

He stops before he enters the station, leaning against a newspaper stand and watching the people go to and fro for a second. As he waits he reaches into his wallet to grab a few of the loose coins.

He exchanges it with the seller and then goes down to the train. This time the car is empty enough that he can sit down. Brian tunes out the world around him as he reads about complex politics that he wouldn’t know how to solve. The fraud trial being won by a lawyer that no one had ever heard of. The death of a boy goes uunoticed.

But the philanthropist who is working on centers in that part of town is getting recognition by politicians and police alike. For all that he is trying to save these people, it seems that help doesn’t come at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please leave your thoughts and comments below or come talk to me on tumblr!


	8. i want to be a rockstar colliding with a star (another drink and another second forgotten)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, late again. But almost done with finals to get back to a consistent update schedule!

Brian wishes he had spent his time off thinking about why he is doing _this._ His legs are nearly over his head and the thrusts are too sloppy to give him any good stimulation, but Brian moans and whines and keens in the way he knows this client likes.

It helps that he got to have another few lines before his client was fucking into him. Brian tightens and listens to the string of lewdness with all the attention he might give a gnat. He lets out a breathy sigh and turns his head.

They are almost done at least. He thinks about the call he got last week about testing negative. It hadn’t been a relief and not a wake-up call, it was luck. Brian finds that he is waiting more and more for his luck to run out.

When he feels the man still above him Brian arches his back just enough and is quick to cover his stomach with his hand. It is a poor ruse he knows, but hopefully, his client is too out of it – or doesn’t care enough – to notice.

“Thanks, love.”

Brian winces.

“Tip is on the vanity, out the side door.”

He rolls out of bed, barely missing getting hit by the condom as it gets tossed towards the rubbish bin. Brian pulls on his pants, the denim aggravating the scratches down his thighs. They are still a proper fit around his legs but everywhere else they hang loose, almost falling off without a belt.

His shirt also hangs off him in an unflattering manner. Brian hasn’t gone out to buy more clothes yet, or perhaps he won’t. Freddie hasn’t said anything during the studio, but John and Roger certainly are watching him. Making his lunch order a little bigger than the others or bringing more of Ronnie’s leftovers, as though he can’t feed himself.

It does not make him eat more though. His appetite is gone. Even if his stomach grumbles as he finishes the last button. Brian grabs the money clip and pushes it into his pocket before moving through the house slowly. None of the servants are up either, his client timed their encounter to be after the staff is dismissed for the day and before they arrive to begin their jobs.

Brian steps out into the mid-April air. It is warming up, meaning that no coat is no longer a frostbite sentence. He sniffs, there is rain in the air. His nose hurts as he does and rubs his nose again checking that no one is by the side exit.

Hist Handler or perhaps his client doesn’t let him stay too long in this neighborhood, so the car isn’t more than a block away. He dives into the seat, holding out his hand and then wrapping it around his pay. It feels lighter than the last time.

“Still have enough?” His handler asks mildly.

“Yeah.”

He had just been given more only a few days ago, and while he is using more, especially on the days that he has a client and on days after he has a client, it is far from a problem.

They drive slowly, and Brian wonders when they had stopped letting him get on the tube. Now they take him to the park near his flat, which he thinks might be shadier, but it would be worse if it were the middle of the day.

He grabs the paper with his next meeting. Brian tucks it into his pocket as he did with the cash. The weight is dragging his pants down, and now he realizes that he left his belt hanging over the closet door of the client. Well, at least it isn’t a belt that he cares about.

The neighborhood is waking up as he walks down his steps and unlocks the door. He grabs the paper from the mailbox. Despite how much it hurt to do, he bought a subscription, hoping he sees news of the young boy’s death. Hope isn’t the right word but he needs to know that someone cared enough to give him a name. Someone other than Brian who is nothing more than a drugged-up fuck to most. Brian trips over his school bag as he enters then bites back the sob.

Ah. He thinks, here is the crash.

The paper hits the dining table with a quiet _thwack_ and then it slides across it before coming to a stop with half of it hanging off. Brian digs around his cabinets, which still had a decent amount of food despite the last time he had been grocery shopping with Roger was two weeks ago.

Brian tilts his head, had he lost that much weight in such a small time?

He unwraps the package of bread, taking out a single piece and pulling off the crust. Brian tosses the crust into the sink before nibbling on the soft middle. As soon as it is halfway gone he picks up his glass from the counter, fills it with room temperature tap water, and sips at it, before finishing the other half of the bread.

Once his breakfast is done, he grabs his schoolbooks and slings his bag over his shoulder. He sniffs at his shirt. It smells like expensive cologne, but not enough that anyone might complain about how he smells. Brian glances at the clock and wonders if he has the time to make it to his lecture.

He hasn’t failed out of the semester, yet, but he is barely clinging to the Bs and Cs that he has, and another angry call from his father would be too much for him right now. Brian looks up at the sky, he hates that he had blamed it on the band getting more popular.

They are getting more though so it isn’t a lie. Gigs are nearly every weekend and always sold out. Brian finds it strange that he has never had that moment of having to choose between work and the band.

He looks at his calendar and then at the neatly printed reminder, that isn’t his handwriting. This weekend’s gig information is in the square and then a meeting time in his messy writing but no other information.

What had John called him about? Oh, right there is a meeting with a potential label sometime this weekend, just before their gig. Will they have to wear their stage wear to the meeting? What better way is there to meet Queen, he thinks.

He shoves random books into his bag before slinging it over his shoulder. Brian barely remembers to lock the door on his way out, and then he trips over his top step. His mind drifts back to his previous train of thought – and he is a little too proud of himself that he remembers what he had been thinking about.

John probably wouldn’t like having to go to a meeting in tight trousers and an equally tight shirt, and Brian imagines that when he used to care what he looked like in the eyes of the people around him, he might have been embarrassed to show up in whatever Freddie dressed him in, Brian wonders if he still has the shirt that had inspired Freddie to finally contact Zandra.

His collarbones are sticking out so prominently only help with the angel look, he thinks, graceful and too fragile to be touched by mortal hands. Brian skips across the street and to the bus station. He looks around wondering how he made it here.

“Brian,” John pants.

“Sorry, I thought I might miss another stop today.”

“What?” He whispers.

“Oh, I missed the tube this morning. Ronnie was having some kind of teacher crisis – or crisis of teaching, they’re different you know. _Anyway,_ she was having a crisis so I had to help her.”

Brian nods.

“How are you this morning?”

“Okay.”

John quirks an eyebrow and then looks out to the street. Brian follows his gaze. When had it been so hard to talk to them? After the confession? After John found out how late work had kept him? Is the missed showcase still straining their relationship? Any of those situations might lead to the odd tension that fills the studio when he bothers to step inside.

He doesn’t think that he has been that gone for studio sessions. Maybe not as mentally involved as he usually is. His guitar playing is as good as ever and the songs reach below the numbness and the drugs.

“Hey,” John clears his throat, “Freddie and Rog are going to be scouting for outfits tonight for that meeting this weekend, remember?”

Brian nods. He doesn’t remember that conversation but it doesn’t mean that he hadn’t heard it. At least he remembered the meeting.

“Anyway, they figure that we should just go and make sure they fit properly the same day so that we can make any changes, so I thought why not have it at your place for a change?”

He stares at John.

“We haven’t been over there in a bit, so it's probably immaculate,” John grins, “and I can come over before and make sure it is. That way Rog and Fred can have cleanliness goals to aspire to.”

“Sure,” Brian agrees. It is hard to get his tongue to move.

John brightens and smiles enough to show the gap in his teeth. Brian feels something stir in his stomach and he hopes it isn’t the bread that is making him sick. It is one of the last things that he can eat and not have to hang out in the toilet with only an hour later.

The bus arrives and temporarily saves Brian from any more conversation.

“Tomorrow work for you? I’ll see Freddie today at lunch, so might as well give him enough time to change his mind twenty times.”

“That’s fine.”

Brian tilts his head, wondering if John had spoken this much before or if he in that final stage of warming up to them. He wobbles with the bus, occasionally answering questions John asks him mostly about classes and his family, getting strangely serious when Brian lies about his work.

John’s promise of “I’ll come over right after class!”, is called as he steps off of the bus.

His hand raises in acknowledgment. Brian walks to his class slowly and deliberately. His classmates are now used to him being absent-minded, wrongly thinking that his head is full of complex thoughts about stars and music and maybe how to combine them.

He looks down at his fingers, the callouses are softer and fresher. So many songs hide in his chest and one day he will be able to write and play them, again. For now, all of his thoughts are about the marriages he has helped ruined and how it physically hurts to wake up.

Every night he dies a little and he waits for that final shattering blow. Try not to look like you want to throw yourself off the nearest bridge.

“Brian!”

He jumps, clearing his head of the tangled web. When he turns around he sees his classmate… the name escapes him but they did put in many hours in the lab together, back when they both had their job. Was this the one that came from old money?

“Hey,” he says, “how have you been?”

Brian pushes away the immediate answers and digs through his head for a proper and civil response, “alright, I suppose. Hard semester.”

His classmate nods his head, “you can say that again. Did you hear the news?”

“I’ve heard plenty,” Brian replies smartly, “what are you talking about?”

“Doctor Brevik of course!”

Brian stares, “what about him?”

“He goes before the committee tomorrow, for _everything._ Well, everything he did at the university.”

“Wasn’t that most of it?” Brian hums.

“Well, you know how that goes,” his classmate shrugs.

Was his name Steven?

“So he’s going to have to defend himself against the plagiarism and bribery charge.”

“He bribed the lab tech, didn’t he? Or was it the journal?”

“Steven” rolls his eyes, “no, he got a leak of the list of his peer reviewers and bribed two of them, _and_ his data was completely made up.”

Brian nods, he remembers pouring over the strange numbers. He knows that he hadn’t gotten anything like that in his equations or simulations but his professor assured him that is what he had gotten. Also, Steven doesn’t feel like the right name for this student. David perhaps?

No. That was someone Freddie knew. Edward? Brian shakes his head, that is the name he thinks fits his Handler so certainly not.

“Then he has to defend himself against plagiarizing his second thesis, I can’t believe it took sixteen years for someone to find out.”

“He took it from a Spanish journal didn’t he?”

“One with a circulation of 300,” his classmate nods, “but we get one transfer student from Spain as one of the physic department’s TAs and the entire thing collapses.”

Brian nods, “so they’re going to revoke his doctorate.”

“Probably.”

“I don’t get why he would throw everything away like that,” Brian says.

His classmate shrugs and adjusts his bag, “who knows. Some rumors say you might come to his defense, working with the numbers and all.”

“I might want a job in academia someday. There is no defending numbers like that.”

“You want to work in academia?”

“I’ve thought about it.”

Brian winces at the sharp laugh from his classmate. It doesn’t seem like too farfetched of an idea after all. He is in a master’s program and doing well enough. The smarts and talents are there, he just happens to love the guitar and the thrill of burning down the candle a little more.

You like being paid for getting fucked, a small voice says.

“Oh, didn’t take you for the type, with how your attendance has been this semester. We thought you might drop out, that is why everyone is saying you’re going to defend Brevik.”

They walk into the classroom and Brian feels like he has every single eye on him. As though they can read his mind and tell them what it was that he and whatever-his-name-is were just talking about. His cheeks burn in shame and tears spring to his eyes.

He swallows the sensation down easily and replaces the emotions with a tiny smile, “well I mean that’s the plan if the band doesn’t work out.”

“Sure. Be a rockstar,” his classmate shrugs, “might be better suited for you.”

“What?”

“Oh, rumor says you’ve been hanging with the wrong sort. Got yourself in some sort of trouble with drugs or gangs or something. That’s why you were ‘so sick’, there’s not much happening in space so we talk about what’s happening on earth, you know. And the people you hang around with. I mean _Roger Taylor,_ really?”

Brian feels something in his heart snap, “fuck off.”

He nearly storms down the steps, trying to not fall out of his clogs, because that is the last thing he needs. His classmate calls out from behind him, “I’m just taking the piss, May!”

As he drops his book on the desk in front of him Brian tries to not think about the tiny bag he has hidden in his satchel for ‘emergencies.’

* * *

Brian is staring at the ceiling hope that he comes down faster than normal and when John arrives that he isn’t a sobbing mess. His classmate’s, who he finally remembers is called George, words still ringing in his ear. It was yesterday, but the words still nip at his heels.

Did they think he was going to defend Brevik as a “fuck you” to the university for cutting his position? That he doesn’t care about what his future in academia would look like because he is so guitar obsessed? Then there is the fact that some of his classmates think he is a drug addict – he wonders where they are getting their proof of concept.

Brian watches the popcorn texture spin and he sighs, wondering if it is worth getting up and getting a glass of water. He probably should, but that would involve moving, and isn’t it better just to fall asleep and melt into the couch? For a few more minutes the argument is convincing then he shoots up with a heavy wet cough.

Carefully he stands and moves into his kitchen, which he spent almost an hour rearranging to make it look like he has kept it stocked. It won’t take but a few moments of nosing around to figure out his deception, but they plan to order takeout anyway.

That is Brian’s plan because otherwise he would be expected to cook and he doesn’t have much - nor does he have the confidence that he wouldn’t burn down the house if he tried to cook.

There is a cheap enough Indian restaurant they all used to frequent when Brian’s flat was the primary hangout – it was the largest and he lived alone. Brian runs a hand down his face, his stomach making a good attempt at a sailor’s knot. He is still holding the half-finished glass of water when there is a knock on his door.

“Hey, Bri,” John bobs his head as he steps into his flat.

“Hi,” he whispers then clears his throat.

“Alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I was tidying some things I started to choke on dust,” the lie falls off his tongue easily. Brian sips water to hide any reaction to the fact that he doesn’t react to lying to his bandmates anymore.

“So Freddie and Roger are on the complete opposite side of town and are working their way over, hitting as many shops as possible before closing.”

Brian hums, “so we won’t be seeing them for hours yet.”

“Told us to go ahead and eat without them,” John replies, “but I didn’t know if we were going to get something or if we were going to have something delivered.”

“Delivered,” Brian begs.

“Sure,” John squints, “that Indian place. Prawn curry?”

“Prawn tikka masala,” Brian corrects.

Something lights up in John’s eyes and there is a brighter smile playing at his lips. Brian decides that he doesn’t want to go down that path and instead goes to set his dirtied glass in the sink.

“I’ll order then,” John tilts his head towards the phone, “if you don’t mind.”

Brian waves at him in permission, returning to his spot on the couch. All the progress that he had made trying to mold it to his body is erased as the dent pops back up into shape. For all that this couch is horrible and cheap, it is amazingly comfortable. He has slept on it enough times that he knows it doesn’t hurt his back.

In the entryway, he can hear John speaking. The words are unintelligible from his spot, but he thinks he remembers that John had favored butter chicken. Brian stares at the ceiling and tries to shove every thought about his job and other life away. Right now he doesn’t need to think about deepthroating strangers. Brian wants to be like he used to be.

“Said it’ll be here in half an hour,” John replies, “but I’m short five.”

“There’s money in the biscuit,” Brian snaps his fingers, the word vanishing, “…thing on top of the fridge.”

“Thanks.”

He stares at the wall, tilting his head, “oi! Deaky let me pay for mine!”

“No can do. We’re taking over your house, so I’m providing dinner, mostly.”

Brian presses his lips together, before sticking his tongue out at John. Not that he can see it, but it feels good to be childish.

“Real mature,” John shouts.

“How?”

“I didn’t know. But thank you for confirming it.”

Brian drops back on the couch, wincing when he hits his head on the arm and it feels like his head is splitting apart. He coughs once and some of the fairies in his vision go away.

He pushes himself back up and turns around, trying to crane his neck around the entryway to see if he can see what John is up to, it feels like too much time has passed to just grab a fiver.

“Bri… I…” John comes back into the room, holding a fiver in his hand and a spiral of bills in the other.

“I thought you forgot,” John says holding out the spiral.

It takes a few moments for the wires to connect in his head. Brian releases a tiny ‘oh.’ He hadn’t meant for Deaky to find that, not yet at least.

“No,” Brian shakes his head, “I do want to take you out for a nice dinner because of your achievements. I just… can’t do much right now.”

John sets the money down before walking around the couch, he doesn’t look at Brian but he is chewing on his finger in what Brian knows to be a nervous tick.

“I’ll go, once you’re feeling better,” John bobs his head and bounces on his toes.

Brian has always wondered why people think that Roger is the hyperactive one. Freddie likes to make noises and Roger is perfectly content with a focused task. John though, he likes having several projects and is always fidgeting with something or moving.

“Thanks, Deaky.”

“Can I hug you?”

He stares but gives a startled nod. John’s arms wrap around him and Brian awkwardly lays his around John’s neck. The hug is warm and friendly and just that: a hug. Brian sniffles and moves his arms down so now they are gripping tightly on John’s sleeves.

“Brian?”

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

John’s hands run up and down his back. Brian desperately wishes that he doesn’t have clothes on so he could feel John more but he is relieved that he is clothed. He closes his eyes and isn’t able to suppress the shiver. God, he doesn’t know how to control his thoughts anymore.

“Bri?” John says again, but he doesn’t move away, just keeping up the rhythmic pace. Up down. Up down. One and two and three and four.

“I don’t think I’ve gotten a hug in a very long time.”

That does make John pull away. It is strange because Freddie and Roger are always hanging off someone. Brian doesn’t remember when he had lowered his bristles enough for a hug. Touch is… Brian doesn’t like to be touched these days, too many ghosts of faceless partners tug and pull at him.

He can see John figuring something out in his head. Brian knows that it would be too much to assume John would cuddle him, and Brian doesn’t want that. Right now, anything more than this might finally break him. It would be unfair to John who seems to still have feelings for him.

“Why don’t you just lean on my shoulder then?”

John moves so that he is sitting on the couch, facing the TV, and putting his feet on the coffee table. Brian shifts around so that his ribs are pressed against John’s and then he lays his head right in the gap between his neck and shoulder.

“I won’t make this anything more,” John promises.

Brian curls John’s arm around his shoulders and fights the urge to play with his hands. The meaningless contact is making Brian’s heart soar and his skin burn. He doesn’t feel a pull or push to move things along, the polite encouragement to get on his knees. Brian tries to remember what he is supposed to do in this situation.

John just wants to _be._

He doesn’t know how to do that anymore. Instead, he stands up going to his sad little television and turning it on. There are only a few stations they can watch. The last time he had it had been for the background noise as the screen lights up to a sitcom. The news might be on soon.

Brian goes back to John, more relaxed now that he can focus on other things besides every breath of John’s pushing into him and waiting for when the hug gets tighter and the fingers start playing with his hair before pushing his back against the couch and spreading his legs.

With John, sex could be nice, he thinks, nicer than his other clients, which is an unfortunately low bar. John would never be a client and Brian won’t let himself _be_ with John until he has stopped whoring himself out.

Which, at this rate, it might be never.

Brian’s attention shifts from John’s arm to the television. The characters are currently scrambling for ideas to fix something. They are overacting, he thinks, but he doesn’t know what it is they broke. John’s hand twists and Brian returns to watching it.

“Bri?”

“Yeah?” He says through a squeaky and dry voice.

John shifts a little and the movement is away from him, before clearing his throat, “are you okay?”

“What do you mean?”

The words come quickly in a _woosh_ of air that Brian couldn’t stop. His hair stands on end.

“Your heart feels like it is trying to beat through your spine.”

Now that John says that, his pulse does feel frighteningly fast and hard. The organ bounces from his breastplate to his spine and back again. His palms are sweaty and the discomfort he has been trying to ignore coats his body in a cold slime, not unlike dropping a slug down your pants.

“Uhm,” Brian says.

John makes a noise of encouragement as Brian tries to think of a way to explain anything. No words of half-truths spring to mind. He watches the characters come up with a solution to their problem. His heart ping pongs in his chest losing rhythm.

“Is everything an acceptable answer?”

“No,” he feels John shake his head with a surprised laugh, “but you can feel like that. Remember you have Roger, Freddie, and myself. Always.”

Brian opens his mouth – the trumpets of the nightly news opening causes the television speakers to crack – and he shuts it in fright.

“Our top stories tonight, the Irish Crisis continues as the government faces stronger resistance to direct rule. No verdict on the Porter trial and –”

“The world has gone to shit,” John says.

“Worse other places,” Brian says softly, and then thinks it is worse barely half a city away.

“True. All we have is inflation and part of our country is trying to not be part of this country.”

Brian leans against John, ignoring how the slimy feeling crawls down his leg, “and our dinner is late.”

He hopes that his voice sounds normal enough and it was a gentle enough prodding. John chuckles and Brian is nudged away. He scrambles to the safety of the other side of the couch. Deliberately looking away when he sees John’s hurt expression. Brian doesn’t know how to apologize.

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

Once more he hears John’s accented voice as he talks to a stranger over the phone. Brian feigns interest as the Foreign Secretary gives an oddly sweaty interview. He briefly wonders what losing half of a country would do to their economy, probably make more people go to the streets.

John’s voice cuts off as the phone is hung up. Brian peaks over the back of the couch when John doesn’t come back in.

“I’ll have to pick it up. Delivery driver earned themself a fine for speeding,” John’s hand smacks against the wall as he slides his shoes on.

He notices that they are trainers instead of his usual platform shoes.

“But we’ll get a free meal out of it, for our trouble.”

“That’s great Deaky,” Brian says, relieved that he can breathe in his own air.

“Be safe,” he adds.

“Sure, be back soon, Bri!”

The door closes with a soft click. Brian rolls his neck and the tension bleeds out of him. He flicks his eyes down the hall and towards his bedroom, licking his lips and then digging his blunt nails into his palm. Instead, he stretches out on the couch, laying with his stomach pressing onto the hard spot in the middle, and tries to ignore the news anchor.

* * *

Brian jumps awake with the rattling of the door. He tilts his head listening to see if he could figure out who it was that was entering, and if he should be prepared to face death when he hears an annoyed grunt.

He figures it sounds close enough to John that he turns his head and rests his cheek on his arm, trying to figure out what is happening now. The news is closing on the segment about taxes, he thinks and moving onto what has to be their final story of the night.

“With the third center opening in less than a week, millionaire William Fletcher has been busy making sure the center is fully stocked.”

The screen cuts to an interview from earlier today, one that is sure to be in every paper tomorrow as thirteen different recording devices circle his face. Brian sits up and squints his eyes, digging around his head for why this man seems familiar.

“We want these people, the ones that need help, to trust us. I am happy to announce our new employment initiative…”

He immediately crosses the ‘lawyer’ off the list. Brian presses his lips together and tries to change the lightning from the sun to something a little darker, dingier.

“Oh!” Brian shouts.

There is a thud, “Christ, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Not you.”

He doesn’t hear what John says after that. Brian carefully sweeps his eyes over the plan of the man’s face. Glancing down at what he can see of his hand. It has to be. Brian shakes his head, well it doesn’t have to be, but this man looks very similar to the businessman that stopped the teen from mugging that woman a few months ago.

William speaks with a northern accent, not quite Irish, but not the standard London accent either. His voice is kind too, never answering a question too snappishly or even too generously. It seems that he was tired of seeing sad news about these ‘poor souls.’

Brian narrows his eyes. He can’t say as though people like him never end up in the paper, but it is certainly not frequent. He thinks about that still-unnamed boy that he saw surrounded by police.

“Bri, coming?”

“Sorry, got caught up in the news story.”

“Nice bloke,” John says, “at least nice enough to spend all that money on other people.”

“Yeah,” Brian says, “food all right?”

“Got extra because someone else canceled their order, so I imagine that Rog and Freddie are going to eat it.”

“Think they’d forget to feed themselves?” Brian digs out a prawn and peels the skin off of it.

“I think they just eat a lot.”

Brian offers a tiny smile. The prawn is good, the right amount of spice, and perfectly cooked. He doesn’t remember the last time he ate something like this, his mouth waters, but he already knows that he can’t push it. His lower stomach gurgles.

“Good?”

“Yeah. Just haven’t had it in a bit.”

John stabs a piece of chicken before waving it around, “same here. It has been ‘might as well just make another cheese on toast for dinner because I have so much to study’, exam seasons.”

“You need a reason to make cheese on toast?”

“Veronica heroically defends the bread now. Says I was getting _addicted_.”

Like that the good mood and what little appetite, he has managed is sucked from him. Brian shoves a vegetable in his mouth to hide from John, but John pushes around a piece of naan so that is more sauce than bread. He picks it up, his fingers staining red as he pops into his mouth.

John moans. Brian turns his head away.

“Very good. This was a nice idea, Bri.”

Brian doesn’t know that it is.

* * *

Roger and Freddie stumble through his door like an unannounced hurricane. Brian hears the rustle of paper and twin laughter before he sees them tumble through the door into the living room, bags hanging off the entire length of their arms.

“Hello, my dears!”

“Brian, John,” Roger greets slightly quieter, “please tell me you have leftovers.”

“Oh hush, you’re watching your girlish figure.”

“Call me girlish one more time and we’ll box about it,” Roger scowls.

“Wouldn’t want to bruise that pretty face of yours. It’s our moneymaker.”

Brian tries to cover his gag by clearing his throat.

Roger huffs and then turns away from Freddie with a lift of his nose.

“Anyway,” Roger says, “I’m starving.”

“Things happened, but you both have meals in the fridge.”

“You’re a saint, Deaky!”

Brian listens to his kitchen become an echoing mess of porcelain clinking together and the whirr of the microwave. He leans back in his little nest of pillows he surrounded himself with while eating. It unintentionally formed a wall, and now Deaky is sitting in the old wicker chair that was here when he moved in.

…Was it here when he moved in?

Roger drops down onto the couch next to him, careful to not spill the sauce over the side. He already has a smear on the corner of his lips. He is picking at the meat with his finger while keeping the fork and plate in the same hand.

“Don’t spill it,” Brian says tiredly.

Roger looks down at the carpet which in between the fine filigree has a few dribbles of something brown. He offers a tiny smile of apology and then stabs the meat with his fork. Freddie is a little more caring for Brian’s earthly possessions as he sets his bowl on the coffee table and sits on the floor.

After a look from John, Roger also slides to the floor. Taking out his apparent annoyance by stealing something from Freddie’s plate – ah he cut the naan into strips.

“Any luck?” John asks after a few moments of allowing Roger and Freddie to fend off “starvation.”

“Quite a bit, there’s this beautiful yellow and black striped jacket I found! Just hanging in the middle of the street.”

Brian looks at John.

“Hanging in the street?”

“On a line with unmentionables.”

Brian snorts, “Freddie…”

“It isn’t flea bitten this time,” Freddie huffs and then winks at Brian, “I thought you might look good in it, but I think it might having too short of sleeves for you.”

He folds his arms against his chest and sucks on his bottom lip. Most of the time he doesn’t care that he has a slender frame until it comes to clothes. Nothing ever fits him properly and he wears what does until it is rags. Freddie doesn’t seem to mind spending hours looking for something that fits him properly – or spending the money to get something tailored for him and the usual warm gratitude is gone.

“Anyway, I liked the jacket and I think that I would be jealous if you wore it, so it’s mine now.”

“Oh, so isn’t because it wouldn’t fit,” John teases.

“Well,” Freddie starts and then bites down on a piece of naan when no argument comes to mind.

Brian rubs his hands down his pant legs, “anything else?”

“Plenty, what we don’t use for this meeting will go nice in our stall, don’t you think Roger?”

“mphgha,” Roger says.

Freddie wrinkles his nose, “do swallow darling.”

John snickers which makes Roger snort into his food dish. Brian looks away to hide his smile when he hears Freddie’s gagging grow more exaggerated as Roger tries to not choke and John keeps giggling like they are schoolboys.

“Children!” Freddie declares.

He stands up and steps over Roger to break through Brian’s walls of pillows. Brian makes a tiny noise of complaint as the quilted one hits the ground and then a grunt as Freddie settles dramatically against him. He looks down at the singer with bewilderment.

“Brimi, you have adult taste,” Freddie whines, “save me from these children.”

Freddie’s body temperature sinks against his hip and thigh. Brian wiggles a little bit but his body weight isn’t going anywhere, so Brian leans his cheek against his palm and looks at the television with a bored expression.

“You made a joke about being a pussy-tamer when John called a cat that. Doesn’t that make you a child too?”

“Well! We know that isn’t true,” Freddie pushes away looking the perfect picture of wounded dignity as he topples himself back over to the other side of the couch, “see if I care about you.”

“Oh Freddikins,” Brian sighs.

He ducks under the tasseled pillow that is thrown at his head. There is a strange pressure behind the top of his nose and it tastes like he is sucking on a coin. Brian lifts his hand to his nose only to feel something slick underneath. He keeps smelling copper and he pulls his hand away and sees a smear of red.

“Brian?” Freddie asks, “I didn’t think I hit you.”

“No,” Brian says, “it’s – ow.”

He winces, but it doesn’t feel like pain. It is a deeply uncomfortable sensation and it drips to his navel. Brian looks up careful to keep his hand under his nose to avoid dripping blood on his clothes or the furniture.

“My nose just started bleeding.”

Roger jumps up, knocking his leg against the table and spilling sauce onto it. He grips Brian’s face between his hand, and carefully tilting it downward.

“Hey, Deaky, can you get a dish towel?”

The footsteps tell him that John is moving away from the living room. Roger presses on a few spots and Brian hisses. Roger hums and clicks his tongue.

“Do you know what you’re searching for?”

“Not particularly,” Roger says with a shrug in his voice, “but I figure if you scream bloody murder something hasn’t healed properly.”

“That was months ago.”

“The body is weird.”

Fabric is tossed through the air with a _fwip_ and then he feels an overworn terry cloth press against his nose. Roger holds it there and keeps his head leaning forward.

“I thought you tilted back,” Freddie says, his voice is whiny with concern.

“Dunno, I thought you choked if you tilted back.”

“Whenever I got hit in the face – which wasn’t a lot _thank you_ – I tilted back. Never choked.”

Brian takes the towel from Roger and leans away. Roger gives him space and he dabs his nose. It doesn’t taste like he is sucking on a penny anymore, but he does have that odd pressure still. He turns the towel to a clear spot – free from blood and tea – and presses it against his nose again.

“The air in here must be dry,” John says after a few more minutes.

He keeps dabbing on his nose, but there are only a few red flecks attaching to the towel now. He rubs the side of his nose but like with Roger a few minutes ago it’s only a little painful. Brian bites his lips and looks at his bandmates.

“Maybe,” Brian says, and then tries for a weak smile, “but I don’t think anything has ever been dry in London.”

“Save for the times it burned down,” Roger replies, “well, it looks like it stopped bleeding.”

Brian sees Freddie hold out another rag, this one from his bathroom. Roger takes it and gently swipes the blood away.

“That came on fast,” Roger remarks.

“It did.”

He stretches out his face and wiggles his nose, but when he doesn’t bleed, he shrugs and takes the rag from Roger, wrapping it up in the other towel. Both are going to need some work to be salvageable.

“Oh, your shirt,” Freddie says.

Brian looks down to see three little drops on his shirt. They are more brown than red, but they hadn’t been there before. It is strange, the few nose bleeds that he has had in life have always come because someone struck him there. None of his clients have shoved him nose-first into a wall lately, either.

“Ah well,” Brian shrugs, “but I think I might hold off on trying things on until tomorrow. I’d rather not bleed on new clothes.”

Roger sticks his bottom lip out but nods once more pressing on the skin around Brian’s nose. There isn’t any trace of the bruise from when it had been broken and when Brian went to the clinic to get tested the doctor had told him how well the nose had healed after mentioning it.

“Boo, I wanted to see you in this lovely blazer I found.”

“I might wear it,” Brian says, “I trust your fashion sense.”

After the towels are tossed into his overflowing laundry basket he settles on the chair that Deaky had given up while he rummages for what they had bought him.

“I will never wear anything like this,” he says holding up a pair of yellow shorts.

Brian wonders if they aren’t kid’s boxers.

“But your _legs –”_

“Can remain a mystery to the world.”

Every once and while during the sorting of clothes one of the boys would look back at him. He would smile and send them a thumbs up. Sometimes the look would be accompanied by a garment. Everyone had gotten an outfit’s worth of clothes, but the shirt and accessories changed. Brian is holding several dark-colored jackets with patterned shirts meant to be worn underneath.

“You have plenty of slacks,” Freddie says, “but we found these black-purple velvet bell-bottoms.”

He catches them, feeling soft fabric – ignoring his brain trying to remind him of the other times that velvet has been on his body. Freddie is right, in certain lighting, he can see the purple shimmer to them. They are soft.

Brian slides his fingers down the legs of them and listens to the laughter in the room around him. The television plays another sitcom, and he thinks this one might be interesting – there is a laugh track at least, and they are showing planets. His belly is full, and his house is warm. He doesn’t have to chase the streets later tonight.

Everything is as perfect in the world as it can be in Brian’s life, but he keeps having to bite down on his cheek as tears threaten to fall. His nose still feels like something is hanging from it and his stomach occasionally cramps protesting the amount of food that he ingested earlier. He has more than an Altoids tin worth of cocaine in his dresser upstairs and he gets fucked for money.

“Oh! Roger! Look at this! It would bring out the blue in your eyes!”

“I’d look like a bloody peacock Fred!”

* * *

Brian ends up wearing the velvet pants to the meeting. He also works up the courage to wear a v-neck with a deep neckline and the blazer that Freddie had pointed out to him. He finishes off the look with a few tight necklaces and one long one.

The powder is cleaned from around his nose, and Brian hopes that no one is going to be looking too closely at his eyes. He also knows that when the high wears off – as he jitters in his sitting room waiting for John to pick him up – that he will hate himself for doing this.

His night life was never supposed to cross over into his real life. It took school from him and he hopes that it won’t take the band.

He takes some comfort in the fact that Brevik had his doctorate revoked and is fired without a severance package. The man indirectly ruined his life, not that he had any control behind Brian deciding that the easiest way to make money was hanging around a street corner until someone wanted to fuck him, but he was why Brian had felt he had to.

The doorbell rings, Brian wipes under his nose again and when no powder or blood appears on his palm he hurries to the front door. Freddie is standing outside of it this time, he wears a stunning orange shirt that looks like he raided it from his mom’s closet again.

“Oh, very nice, very daring,” Freddie hums approvingly, “why have all these lovely angles if you never use them?”

“Because I don’t know how to, Fred,” he says with a smile.

Freddie waves his hand, “and yet you still do it naturally. What can’t you do Mr. May?”

“Plenty I’m sure. Just haven’t found it yet.”

“Cocky today too, I see,” Freddie’s smile softens, “how are you feeling?”

Buzzed. Blissed. Couldn’t give a damn about the world right now.

“Good. Slept well last night.”

Freddie squeezes his arm reassuringly before climbing the steps in a slight jog. Brian takes the steps at a more sedate pace, not trusting his balance or his clogs. It is warm for this time of year and he can feel the coming summer heat on the wind.

“Has it been so long already?”

“What?”

Brian clears his throat, “oh, I just feel like it’s been too short of a spring.”

“That it has. The winter eats up all the time for flowers and good feelings and then drops us right into the devil’s asshole.”

Brian huffs a laugh and follows Freddie into John’s van. Roger is tapping on the dashboard with his fingers, following the rhythm of whatever is playing softly through the radio, and even John’s finger taps in time.

“Onward!” Freddie says, pointing and leaning through the gap in the front seats.

Brian watches as Roger pushes Freddie back screeching something about vehicle safety. The rough tone is full of excitement, Brian understands it, this could be their big break. He knows that the company they are talking to isn’t large, probably looking for a golden egg to make them into a name in the music industry.

He leans his head against the window, watching London go by. When was the last time he drove himself anywhere? Or just driven to drive, even if he was with someone else.

Brian turns his head to see Freddie singing along to the radio. Roger’s voice filters in and the van is loud. His hearing snaps back in place with ringing. He sucks on his tongue and turns his gaze back to the streets.

John’s eyes flicker to him in the mirror and Brian catches them with a smile, slight enough that no one could tell it is fake. Freddie and Roger screech the final notes, pushing their vocals higher than the singer and then competing with each other. Roger wins and crowns his victory by licking his lips.

Freddie coughs to recover from his voice breaking.

He tilts his head, wondering where he would have joined in. Never confident to push his voice with the likes of those two, maybe he would have sung along, staying true to the melody of the writer. His head buzzes with unanswered questions as he feels the synthetic euphoria slowly filter out of his body.

Hopefully, he won’t have to excuse himself to cry in the toilet, he feels emotion crest like waves in his head. They are being filtered by the wave breakers, but he wonders when they are going to breakthrough.

Freddie resumes trying to outdo the paid singers on the radio, his vibrato loud and bright and slightly uncontrolled. Brian marvels at the skill curious to know how much better he could get with proper training. He gets caught staring and Freddie sends him a wink as he abruptly cuts off the note. Brian’s cheeks warm.

* * *

They arrive at the building, giggling with nerves and expectation. John leans his head against the steering wheel before he is tugged from his seat by Freddie who is hugging his arm as they walk to the entrance.

Roger leads the way, hands in his pockets and shades covering his eyes, his jaw is set and he has a skip to his step. Brian strokes the velvet of his pants before picking up his pace to walk alongside Roger. His heart is in this throat as he stares at the imposing double glass doors with the label written in fancy font across the top.

“We’ve got this, Bri,” Roger says.

“Course we do,” Brian replies just as softly.

This is everything they had been hoping for since they met. Smile had some fame; they had courted some labels but more of the shady type that cared more about the money than anything the band would ever do. Roger had spoken long about his dreams of being rich and famous.

Roger’s shoulders are tight.

There are several undeniable truths in the universe, Brian knows. Secrets in mathematical equations are things he can uncover. Queen will get signed; he knows it. They are good. Freddie’s voice is exceptional. Roger has a wonderful voice and knows the drums like no one he has ever met. Deaky is startling creative when he wants to be.

Brian speaks with more confidence than he has had in the last few months, “let’s see what they offer us.”

The question that he cannot solve is if he will be there for the premiere of the band. He wants to be. This would be his chance to break the cycle of where he has found himself, he is as much a part of Queen as the others are. Brian doesn’t doubt his place in the band. He feels a worm in the back of his head ask how long he can live in this cycle and how long would it take to become a famous band. Which end of the candle will burn out first, he wonders.

Roger reaches out and grabs his hand, offering a smile that is more nervous than anything. Brian twists his palm around so that their fingers are laced together and he squeezes the door opens, but as soon as they are in the lobby they break their grip.

The lobby reminds him of the bathroom in the center that Peaches took him to. It is white and pristine and there’s not a single spec of dirt on the wood floor. Smoke lingers in the wall and a few young men are standing to the side with cigarettes in their mouth. One leans against a guitar case.

“Who are you here to see?” The secretary asks when they step close enough to the desk.

Brian follows the swirl of the marble on her desk. There are several files and papers scattered around, including one hanging off the side, which he catches and hands to her. She gives him a slightly warmer smile as she taps the papers into line.

John breaks away from Freddie and pulls out the appointment card that he made. The name and the date and the time are all written out, in neat print. Brian looks back at the men in the corner. He doesn’t see anyone else in the building, and he doesn’t hear any sounds of music.

He thought there might be more music at a music label, even on a scratchy portable radio.

“Well, I’ll tell him you’re here. Take a seat over there.”

“Thank you.”

Then John scampers back to Freddie. Roger is pulling out a cigarette, but he doesn’t light it, just rolls it around between his lips. John does steal one from Roger’s pack and uses a match to light it, shaking out the flame until the wisp of smoke follows the smooth arc of his hand.

Freddie reaches out a hand for a cigarette, but Roger ignores him, rolling his to the other side of his mouth before finally pulling out his silver lighter. He lights a second one and hands it to Freddie. Brian moves away from where the air seems and he leans on the wall, he has a full view of the room. A mail carrier drops a package off. Someone comes and gets the package from the desk, a woman exits the elevator with her heels clicking angrily on the wood, the water cooler bubbles. It all feels so slow.

“Queen?” The secretary calls, “he’ll see you now.”

They crowd into the elevator, Roger bumping against him when he turns to push the second-floor button. There are only two floors in the building, he wonders where the stairs are and why nobody is taking using them. A jazz piece cuts through the muffled static. Brian looks up and sees a half-open speaker cap.

He nudges John who follows his gaze and wrinkles his nose.

“Too cheap to fix it? Or do they not care?” John muses.

Freddie’s eyes narrow slightly, the excited smiling disappearing as the elevator opens with a _ding._ There is a small lobby and two branching hallways, but one hallway is closed as a few men in painters’ suits walk around.

They turn and follow the signs to the office they’re looking for. Well, John leads the way to the man they are looking for Roger and Freddie are whispering quickly and Brian follows after them. The painters must be working to cover the horrid floral wallpaper. It is yellowing at the top and he can see where it folds and wrinkles because of water damage.

John raps on the door three times before backing off.

“Enter!”

They all shuffle in together, Brian brings up the rear, making sure that the door doesn’t slam as he closes it. The office is expensive-looking, but as he keeps looking, he keeps seeing the flaws. The desk that is made to look like mahogany is peeling on the corners and the gold on the light fixtured is tarnished.

He suspects the only thing that is the value it looks, are the decanters of alcohol on the shelf behind the man sitting behind the desk in a relaxed pose. Brian takes a second to observe him. His suit is a touch too wide in the shoulders and his combover barely coverings his balding head.

Roger snickers but covers it with a cough. He smiles to himself, Roger must have noticed the mustache too, one end still perfectly curled but the other had flattened out to a sword tip point.

The executive stands, barely reaching Freddie’s neck, and extends his hand. He goes down the line, John, Freddie, Roger and finally Brian. His hands are rough from hard work. Brian licks his lips; this is exactly the type of man he might have chased after when he was still working his alley. There is a wedding band skin line, Brian wonders if he is hiding his marriage or recently divorced.

“Welcome boys, welcome.”

“Thank you for having us,” Brian says his mother’s manners forever engrained.

“Sit! Sit down, let me pour you a glass of Laphroaig, aged eight years, I believe. A solid scotch. Nothing beats a scotch from Scotland, eh?”

“No Scotch!” Brian shouts.

Freddie sends him a glare which makes Brian shrink back at his rudeness. John stares at him with open concern. He feels the questions burn like the scotch did, as it left his mouth dry and stale.

“No scotch,” Roger echoes, slowly breaking out his trance, “bit more of a vodka fan myself.”

Brian sighs in relief and sends him a tiny smile in thanks.

“Good Man!” The executive laughs heartily and sets the amber decanter down.

He is handed a glass with what might charitably be called a shot of vodka. Brian clinks glasses with everyone and downs it. He fights the shiver from the burn and leans forward to rest the glass on the table.

“Now, lads, let’s talk business.”

He could go for some blow right now, Brian thinks as both the executive and Deaky lay out their papers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Brian. But more time with the boys!


	9. a dollar may help you forget you lost your mind and soul (another lost battle and time has run out)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof I'm getting really bad at these weekly updates   
> in my defense, I had to graduate but also finals!

The sun is too bright as it streams through the windows of the school. It reflects off the wood and metal edging on the table and banister. He can even see dust dancing in the light. Brian looks down at his watch, but strangely the second hand has stopped moving, he taps it twice.

“Brian! Have you gotten it yet?” Andrew says the moment he falls in step with Brian, pushing him forward as his hand slaps his back.

He carefully shifts a step away feeling the footballers' eyes on him yet again. Brian plays with the plastic wrapping of the sandwich in his pocket. It is room temperature now, and he can’t imagine it being any good, but it is better than paying for the school’s lunch.

“No, I haven’t. I told you, I have to get my allowance, first.”

“You’ve been saying that for three weeks, Brian! I want to know your thoughts. Everyone has read it!”

His cheeks heat up, “well, clearly not _everyone_ has if I haven’t, why don’t you let me borrow your copy then if you’re so eager to have me read it?”

“Can’t,” Andrew replies with a shrug, “your mum catches you with it, and we’re both in the bathwater. It is contraband after all.”

Andrew makes sure to say it loud enough to perk the interest of some of the lower years. He winks at them and they continue to walk to their usual spot.

“Well, then I’m on the out with her either way,” Brian replies primly.

“Exactly, your mum is wicked sharp.”

Brian winces as he remembers the ear-splitting lecture he had gotten last week for sneaking out of maths for a smoke with the other boys. Granted, he hadn’t smoked anything, but the smell lingered on his shirt and skin. Even showering at school hadn’t stopped his mother from finding out.

It isn’t like he was going to be invited back to that little gathering anyway. Not cool enough to hang, one of the boys had said.

Brian sighs, there must be a reason that Andrew stays his friend and Tim too when he bothers to show up to class.

“What is so good about _Tales from the Crypt_ anyway? Sounds like a bunch of skeleton nonsense.”

“Brian! How are you my age and not my father’s? Not everything is fancy American guitarists.”

“It isn’t,” Brian agrees, “there are some accomplished English ones as well.”

Andrew rolls his eyes, “whatever, as I said just take the money to the corner and get your copy. He has only got a few left.”

“Ten is _a lot,”_ Brian flushes deeper.

His scholarship and school record as well as his dad’s friendship with the dean are the only reasons he can stay at this school. It has such high tuition that Brian must eat sandwiches covered in warm condiments just so he didn’t have to pay and save his family nearly three pounds a week.

Andrew looks at him and then strokes his chin in thought before shrugging, “you’re missing out Brian. Talk to you later.”

He is left with the same confused feeling as when Andrew arrived. Brian has no idea how he could even justify spending that much money. What little savings he does have are going to go to a new set of strings and a final varnish coating for his guitar. She plays beautifully, but he wants her to sound like a thicker instrument like she has a soul in her.

_Tales of the Crypt_ is only something he wants to read because everyone keeps telling him he should read it. The comic doesn’t matter to him like music does.

“It’s only popular because it’s illegal,” he mumbles to himself, “grass is greener and all that.”

“Talking to yourself again, May?”

Brian stills and then lets out a breath as he is met with another boy in his year. His “favorite” chemistry partner.

“Stewart,” he replies.

“I told you, call me Harry, friend.”

“Why would I call you a harry friend?” He clicks his jaw shut.

An arm swings around his shoulder and squeezes in warning, “oh so clever. Got a mouth on you. This is why no one talks to you.”

Brian bites his lip, but that works for all of two seconds, “you are.”

The arm squeezes him tighter, “because I’m such a nice guy. Walk with me, May.”

He thinks about the sandwich sitting sadly in his pocket. Well, his mother always makes a good dinner so missing lunch isn’t the worst thing in the world, better than eating soggy bread. His stomach growls, and it reminds him that he hasn’t eaten since breakfast. A few more hours don’t matter.

Harry drags him out of the school and to the yard where some students have taken up kicking a small bag of rice between them or passing a football around a circle. There are faint wisps of smoke from around the corner. They walk past the crowds, further than their instructors would prefer them to go. No one is going to call them on it, all of them preferring to hide in the building’s only airconditioned room during the late summer haze.

“What are you doing?” Brian asks.

“You want the comic book, right? The nerd one?”

Brian furrows his brow, “what? Why do you care?”

“Well,” Harry says, and he leans his back against the bleachers.

The dream evaporates like a mist. Brian stares at the bottom of his coffee table, trying to remember how he ended up here. He vaguely thinks that he had been crawling around on his back to get away from the bugs on the couch and his skin.

Brian shakes his head and presses his palm to his throbbing eye.

“How odd,” he says quietly.

He hadn’t thought about Harry and that day in years. Harry had been embarrassed when asking if Brian would help him with something. Then he had been angry, apparently something about a friend lying to him.

The entire situation had been awkward, but Brian had shoved it into the darkest part of his brain. The tenner was hidden away, and _Tales of the Crypt_ remained unbought.

Brian scoots to the couch and presses back against it. He looks up at the ceiling, one of the water spots is growing and he wonders if it will collapse on him one day, “was this how I was supposed to turn out?”

He turns his head to Red. She is in the living room now because he had felt bad making her watch as he stumbled in half out of his head looking for anything to delay the soul-crushing coldness that came once he comes down.

It is the week before final exams, too. Brian stretches out on the floor, pressing the side of his head to the cooler carpet to ease the throbbing. He stares at the brown stains that Roger had caused. How odd it is to not be cramming with the blond draped over him or falling into bed, both too out of their head with facts to care that they are cuddling.

What day is it even? Brian pushes himself from the floor, motivated to see how much more of his time he whittled away, and to get a glass of water. His mouth tastes vaguely of copper.

Brian doesn’t go to the kitchen, but instead to the bathroom, feeling the slight tug in his bladder. He pushes open the door and grimacing at the stale smell.

He reaches to flick the light above the sink, it buzzes to life after a moment, blinding Brian in the process, as he is staring directly at the bulb. He rapidly blinks his eyes until the tears wipe away the light, he turns the water on to wash his hands.

Once his vision clears, Brian stares at himself in the mirror, he feels like he has done this more in the past few months than his entire life. His cheeks look even more sunk in than they had the month previously. There are tiny scabs on his neck and his skin is alarmingly pale.

He stares himself in the eyes, ignoring the horrendous purple bags the usual spark in his eyes is gone, hidden underneath a glazed and vacant gaze. What had once been a greenish-gold hazel is muddied.

Brian bends down to wash his face with the warm water, awkwardly avoiding looking at his arms which are covered in long scabs. It feels nice and he sinks into the heat that is gone too fast from his face. There is an odd pressure behind his nose and then there are droplets that feel too thick to be water slipping over his lips.

He looks back up and he sees the thin trail of red, feathered out from hitting the water on his top lip. Brian watches it slowly crawl down his chin to drip onto the porcelain. He swipes it away with a towel that is bunched up on his toilet seat, within seconds the red is blooming again.

He swallows and swipes the blood again before sitting down on the toilet seat with the towel bunched against his face.

* * *

His back hurts. Brian feels the welts rising and rubbing against his shirt. It feels like rain is hitting his back, so he looks up only to see a clear sky. The angry words rattle in his head, tangling around each other with the buzz and making him jump at shadows.

There are footsteps behind him, maybe. He thinks he can hear the client running up behind him to grab him by his mouth and shove more of the powder under down his throat. Brian shudders as he imagines the riding crop crashing down on the soft of his belly, his back could hardly take it and he fears what it would do to the skin there.

He has to stop running, he doesn’t know where he is, or what to do and if he goes any further then he thinks that he might not be able to figure out how to get home. The best idea would have been to run to the car, it was his idea, but he thinks that he must have taken a wrong turn. Now he is lost. He knows is that his shirt is going to be stained and he doesn’t fit in with the large house and yards but he doesn’t know where he is.

Brian whips his head around, looking for any place that he can hide. It still feels like footsteps are creeping on him and he doesn’t know where they are coming from. He spots a large cathedral a few streets away, the steeple is large and imposing against the clear sky.

He takes a turn through the alleyway, stumbling over a tipped over trashcan. Cats scatter, a braver one turns around and hisses at him before scampering off. Brian smacks his hand against the wall and tries to get his brain to focus. Why had he been going down this alley again? His hand stings. The world spins.

Right, the church. He remembers a story about a woman seeking safety and the church protected her. Brian doesn’t know if that is a true story or if it still is used but he feels as though the footsteps are getting closer and closer. He has no choice; he doesn’t think he could survive another blow from the crop.

He stumbles forward, the riding crop had stung, and the pain bloomed across his shoulder and strike after strike buried into that tender skin. Every time he breathes or turns it pulls on his back.

The client didn’t care that he wasn’t supposed to leave bruises. He only wanted to hurt Brian – and he would have thought something wrong with the man, but he felt the erection heavy between his thighs. Brian wiggled away sometime after the fifteenth blow. The sixteenth landing on the small of his back. The seventeenth on the side of his hip. Eighteen hit the ball of his ankle as he scrambled off the bed.

Brian had spent seconds grabbing the clothes closest to him, unsure if he was grabbing his own or if they were client’s.

He emerges out of the alley. It is late enough that no one is out, even the type of people he has learned exist. No one will call the police for him being drunk and disorderly.

The church doors are large and imposing, but Brian shakily makes his way across the street, stumbling on the sidewalk ledge. For a moment, he thinks the building is empty and then he sees the flicker of a candle in the upper window.

His knees are trying to give out by the time he hauls himself up the ten steps to the door. The pain in his back is a raging inferno and he wonders how fast things can get infected. His hand clumsily strikes the handle before wrapping around it and pulling. It is heavy wood – oak he would like to think but it finally budges.

Brian slips inside. It is empty and his bare feet – oh, he left his shoes – echoes softly around the large columns and under the pews.

For a moment he leans against the door, yelping as he remembers the welts on his back.

Someone is singing in a deep baritone; Brian tilts his head trying to pick out the words. At least he isn’t the only soul awake in this place.

He forces himself further in the church, trying to find someone to explain that he isn’t stealing anything. The doors being unlocked and it being well after hours make him think that this is a common occurrence. Brian wanders through the pews before finding a backless bench and sitting.

When he doubles over, to gather himself, it causes the skin to stretch, and at first, he swears that it will tear but slowly the pain eases away. Brian takes one deep breath in and then another and by the time he has breathed forty times he sees clothed feet in front of him.

Brian raises his head and stares at a kindly looking old man. His gray eyes have crow’s feet and his hair is styled as though he ran a palm over it to flatten it. He is wearing pajamas and only the top part of the vestments, the singing Brian had been accustomed too has ceased.

“Hello,” the priest says.

Brian moves his lips, the stick together before they peel apart, and he has to clear his throat before he speaks, “sanctuary?”

The priest nods solemnly, “I’ll take you to the washroom. Your back looks like it needs to be cleaned.”

He hadn’t thought about his back being visibly a mess. Brian stands and follows the priest looking around the church. The last time he had been in one was – he thinks Christmas again with his family. It wasn’t a catholic church, not nearly as grand or imposing. Brian is certain that the church was barely fit for the domination, it was nothing more than a country shack outfitted with pews. The priest turns a corner and they go through another set of doors. There are a few sounds of people sleeping inside of the rooms.

“Here we are,” the priest says, “stay as long as you like. I’ll make tea, just come straight down this hallway and to the left.”

He nods again and steps into the tiny washroom. Brian yanks the shirt off and twists around. His skin is welted as he thought, but against the paleness of his skin, the red looks as angry as it feels, the welt on top of his shoulder leaks out blood.

Brian looks at the shirt – it isn’t his – and notices that the great bloodstain he had imagined is barely noticeable. The welt on his lower back is red, but it doesn’t look like the skin broke. Brian sticks his leg up on the counter and pulls the pants up just enough. The mark on his ankle is barely there, and he imagines the one on his thigh looks the same as the one on his lower back. He allows cool water to drip over the mark, not having anything to wipe it off with but a few discarded towels in the corner and he doesn’t know who or what they could be covered in.

Brian rebuttons not-his shirt and shrugs it on again. The water has calmed the inferno there and he splashes water on his face to clear the residue of a bloody nose, avoiding staring at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t know what to say when the priest inevitably starts asking questions.

What can he say? That not only was he having sex with a man, the man he was with whipped him until he bled.

The long sermons that the preacher at home would give about homosexuality try to bubble to the surface before Brian pops them and ignores it. He knows to dwell on it now will only want to make him try and crawl out the thin window next to him and right back into the arms of his client for the night. The last thing that he wants.

Brian steps out into the hallway. At least a warm drink might fight through the fog that his brain is stuck in, it will let him regroup. At the very least he can figure out where in the city he is and how long it would take him to get back to his flat where he can properly wash away the welts.

_“Alma Redemptóris Mater, quæ pérvia cæli. Porta manes, et stella maris, succúrre cadénti.”_

Brian tilts his head at the voice, why the priest is up so late – maybe it is early – in the morning he doesn’t understand. He hadn’t thought that he was loud enough to wake anyone up. The smell of Earl Gray coaxes him into the little kitchenette, the priest is now mumbling the words to the hymn he was singing earlier.

As he sits down at the place that has a cup set out for him, he wonders if the priest takes pride in his voice. There is a little container of sugar and milk, he takes only half of what he might usually use and stirs it.

The priest continues drinking his tea in silence. Brian wiggles in his seat waiting for the questions to come. He wants something to distract from the spinning of his mind as he comes down into what will probably be the hardest crash of his life.

Brian drinks half of his tea and leaves the rest to become a cold sludge, “you’re not asking?”

He deflates as the question tumbles from his lips.

“Asking about?”

“Why I’m here?” Brian says, “in the middle of the night.”

“Well,” the priest sets his cup down, “we accept all troubled souls in this place, whether they worship or not. I would rather people know they’re safe here than to pry for my curiosity and leave them in danger.”

He shakes his head, it seems so odd, “why not tell them to go to one of the new clinics or shelters or whatever they are?”

“Because they don’t know if it will be safe,” the priest replies.

“But it is _supposed_ to be safe?” Brian adds, he doesn’t know why he is pressing. He thinks about the unnamed boy that died on the side of the street.

The priest takes another sip before answering, “that is a question to ask other people.”

Brian shakes his head again. He thinks about how pristine it had felt. Clean like a hospital, sterile and neutral, but he thinks about how empty it had felt. It wasn’t open but it didn’t feel like it had a heart in it – for all that buildings can have a heart.

Freddie has taught him that sometimes the feeling of a place does matter. It is why he moved out of their dingy flat with its rotation of tenants on the couch. Roger and Freddie’s songs have gotten stronger since then, meanwhile, Brian goes home, and he buries his brain.

He drinks his cold tea and looks at the door.

“You’re welcome to stay the night. Our first service isn’t until eight.”

Brian nods gratefully. He looks at the priest and he thinks the man is worldly enough to _Know_. His throat tightens, this is the first time he has felt anyone look at him and see everything that he has done. There is a window to his soul that this priest has found. Any judgment he has might remain behind closed lips. The priest has a sad twinkle in his eyes that Brian only knows from those people who tossed him coins when they figured out what he was without asking.

Instead of asking, Brian sets his cup and plate on the counter next to the sink, leaving the priest to clean up at his insistence. Brian walks through the halls, his feet getting a chill from the cold stone of the ground. He wanders until he finds two slightly enclosed booths.

He opens the door and drops down onto the lightly cushioned bench. Brian bends forward with his fingers steepled against his forehead and his thumbs digging into his bottom lip. His top lip tickles them as he prays silently, hoping that lightning won’t strike him for using another church’s prayers.

Not that he thinks that there is some other power that would be kind enough to dig him out of the hole he dug himself. The universe is large and can’t spend any time on any single life-form, but sometimes she is kind. The old words are dug out from his brain, he doesn’t remember the last time he said them in earnest.

Truthfully, he doesn’t know the last time he needed to.

His back hurts and his head throbs with every beat of his heart. He leans back slightly, barely resting his shoulders against the wood and crossing his arms over his stomach.

In the morning he can figure out how to get back to his Handler’s car and then he can hide in his flat all day until he drags himself out for coffee. His new trick to convincing any of his bandmates that he is going out “look there are coffee cups in the trash.”

Maybe he should give up on trying to hide this. It isn’t like hiding it changes the fact that he gets a riding crop struck against his shoulder and he has to rely on the kindness of a man who might be just as likely to throw him on the street – if not worse. If he lets this get out, who is to say that it won’t reach the record executives that they want to hire them and sign them for a record.

His secret could kill Queen as surely as it will kill him.

Brian leaves the confessional a quarter to seven, at the very least glad that he won’t be walking with snow on the ground.

* * *

Brian is late getting back to the car. His Handler strikes him with the flat of his hand with surprising force, accusing him of trying to ruin their business.

He feels his mouth move, explaining what happened with a strange sense of detachment. Brian recalls each detail with clarity, but he doesn’t wince at the sound of the crop sliding across his skin or the words the client had said.

“This is his shirt,” Brian finishes.

His Handler nearly rips off his shirt to look at the welts, buttons skitter across the ground. He watches them go, one rolling into a storm drain. Brian lets out a rush of air as he is shoved against the car. His nose wrinkles as hands dig around his swollen skin.

Something is slid into his back pocket.

“You’re off for the week.”

Brian doesn’t want a week off, but he knows no one will want to fuck him while he wears the marks of another

The ride to his usual drop off point is frigid. Brian prods on his cheek several times, wincing at the pain. It is puffy and he won’t be surprised if a bruise appears within the next few days.

When he finally arrives at his flat, the newspaper is folded over the mailbox. Brian grabs it as an afterthought.

Once inside he sets the paper on the table, accidentally knocking off a take-out container. Roger had left it out again, maybe hoping that the smell would entice him to eat more. He bends down and drops it into the rubbish bin before reaching for the paper again. There is still news about the Irish Crisis and the Porter fraud case has been resolved with the man being tried to be let off with no charges.

Brian raises his brow at that but moves on. There are some smaller interesting stories. Some news from America about an up and coming music scene and the corruption of the youth. He flips through the advertisements and classifieds, lingering on the job offers. Veronica’s school is still searching for someone to fill that position, and he wonders why no one has taken it. Brian circles it with a pencil and then another random one to the side, and a few lower down on the page.

He _is_ searching for a different job, and he will look them up later. Brian flips the page more until he reaches the obituaries. Every day he searches for a boy that fits the description of the one on the side of the street. Waiting for a name, waiting to know that someone at least cared that he died.

There is no sign of the boy, but the middle of the page is taken up with a large photo and long obituary. It is a headshot of a well-dressed man, glasses perched properly on his nose.

Brian skims through the paragraphs, and to his horror, it starts to see a too familiar pattern in this man’s life. Strangely, there is a continuation at the end of the column. He nearly rips the pages searching for the continuation.

It doesn’t make sense until he sees William Fletcher had commented on his death.

**James Lansdell, a rising star of economics who taught low-income families the key to good investing – obituary**

Brian skips down the lines until he sees where Fletcher is quoted.

“ _James was a good man, unfortunately, the pressures of life had turned him down a dark path. If he had come to one of my centers, then he might still be here today.”_

_Lansdell was recently released from his executive position at Compass Bank. Lillian Till, a spokesperson of Compass Bank, told The Telegraph that Lansdell's temperament did not align with Compass’ business ethics. It is also reported that Lansdell was a witness in the Porter Trial_

_An employee of Lansdell has reported finding him in his bathtub. Lansdell was found in Kensington flat, no cause of death has been released._

He has to read it three times to understand what is being implied. It doesn’t say how he died, but Brian knew that some of the centers had a pilot program to help with drugs. His stomach turns. This doesn’t make sense.

The words burn into his brain.

Brian yanks the paper back to the obituaries and stares at the man on the page. He looks well-rested and hopeful, but he stares at the face trying to drag the taught skin into wrinkles and the carefully styled hair into something lanky and poorly maintained. The picture has him with dark hair, so Brian adds some gray to the temples.

What that suffering must have done to him. Brian keeps staring at the picture, a man with a string of unluckiness not being able to find a way out of the pit that he has dug himself. Not unless someone breaks the ground first.

They don’t even know he is down here.

Slowly the man’s hair grows out into voluminous curls and his face gets longer and less square. His smile parts his lips enough to reveal a snaggletooth and the glasses are gone. It looks like his passport photo, Brian thinks. He closes his eyes and imagines how his obituary would be written.

_Survived by his mother, Ruth (51), and his father, Harold (56) May. He was studying for an advanced degree in astrophysics. A talented guitarist. Services will be held on…_

He doesn’t think his obituary would take up more than a few lines. Brian shoves the paper down hard enough that it finally rips in half and paces the kitchen once, twice, a third time before hurrying out of the room and going to where his stash is. He slips a little into a baggy, aware of his back screaming and his headache worsening.

Brian hurries back outside and to the garden area in the back of his house where he slowly lays himself on the grass and lets the sun hit his face. He feels the bag in his pocket weighing him down as he tries to think about himself sinking into the dirt.

“I was told a million times of all the troubles in my way. Mind you grow a little wiser, little better every day,” the song topples from his lips, he doesn’t know when it got stuck in his head.

He had been so worried about playing in a band and succeeding in astrophysics when he wrote that song, back then his greatest struggle had been forcing himself to get out of bed when the exhaustion of the dead weighed on him and when the bumblebees of anxiety made it hard for him to breathe.

Now he has to worry about violent clients and not overdosing.

_Do you think you're better every day? No, I just think I'm two steps nearer to my grave._

* * *

Brian jumps when his door loudly smacks against the wall. He sits up slightly, confused. He wasn’t expecting guests, and if it was a robber he might as well catch him now and give him everything valuable on his person, which is a fiver and the slightly expensive watch he started wearing again.

Freddie is the first one in. He looks behind him and Brian can see Roger and John’s heads bob down as they take their shoes off.

“Ah, Brimi! Glad you’re home.”

Brian raises his palm, “where else would I be?”

“That’s the question, eh,” Roger says.

He frowns at Roger’s unusually serious demeanor. His hands are in his pocket and his sunglasses are down. Brian tilts his head as Roger pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head instead of tucking them into his pocket. Roger’s hand slips under his shirt to tug at his shoulder.

Is this going to be a short visit? Brian’s mouth gets gummy and he presses his tongue against the backside of his teeth trying to figure out what they are planning. The few ideas he has make his stomach turn in on itself and he coughs.

Roger sits in the chair while Freddie perches himself on the arm of the chair. John stays leaning against the wall, just barely in Brian’s sight. He feels cornered, he would have to walk past all three of them to get somewhere. They could easily grab him as he does.

He wipes his palms on the couch.

“Brian,” Freddie starts, his voice is soft and gentle, “I think we need to talk about how you’re doing.”

He would almost prefer them to kick him out of the band with no ceremony than to have to answer that question. Instead, Brian bites down on his tongue and nods.

“Why?” He says, ignoring how rough his voice is.

Freddie looks back at Roger, who has effectively walled himself off, his arms are across his chest and one leg is swung across the other. John also has his arms crossed. Brian looks back at Freddie has one hand resting across his thighs and the other is on the back of the couch balancing himself.

“Well, that’s what we want to know, darling,” Freddie gives a tight smile, “you’re not yourself.”

Brian shrugs, “I told you, stress.”

“It’s more than that,” John quips, “we all know it’s more than that.”

Brian shrinks back he doesn’t know what he can do to avoid confessing everything to them now. If they walk out now, they will live with questions and not anger or disgust or sadness about what he has become. The confession gets caught in his throat, as he thinks about a riding crop repeatedly striking him and the weekly nosebleeds as he feeds himself powder instead of food.

“What do you think it is?” Brian challenges.

Freddie narrows his eyes. Brian looks away so he isn’t caught in the pleading gaze. He had no secrets from Freddie… he _used_ to have no secrets from Freddie.

When it is silent for a hundred and thirty-four seconds, Brian counts because it keeps him from running out of the room or crying, he speaks again.

“Well?”

“The… person you’re seeing,” John says, biting down on his lip.

It sounds as though it is yanked from someplace deep inside of him. Brian’s eyes widened and his mouth opens but he doesn’t know what to say, he doesn’t understand the accusation.

“The person you’re seeing is treating you like shit, Bri,” Roger punctuates the sentence with a click of his teeth, “they’ve been lying to you and getting into your head, and I’ve had enough.”

“The person I’m seeing?” Brian asks, trying to remember when he said _anything_ about seeing someone.

“You’re too smart to be playing dumb,” Roger’s rasp is nearly a growl.

Freddie’s hand raises and he shakes his head, “what Roger means to say is –”

“I said exactly what I meant, Fred!”

John steps over to him and places both hands on his shoulder. He can see Roger arching away from John’s hands like a particularly fussy cat, but he leans back into the chair once John’s hands are gone.

“I’m,” Brian looks at Freddie, trying to understand what is happening, “why do you think that?”

“It’s alright darling, there are shitty people in the world,” Freddie moves from the arm to the cushion, “they tell you lies and then stop you from being with your friends and some even lay their hands on the people they are meant to treat with kindness and respect.”

He shakes his head. How had they gotten _such_ a wrong idea? Brian cocks his head, his mouth still open in surprise.

“We just want to help you get away from them.”

“No, I’m not – this isn’t…”

Why is he fighting against such an easy out?

“It isn’t?” John says.

His voice is uncharacteristically soft. It is filled with a coaxing sort of kindness Brian remembers himself using whenever he fished kittens from the gutter as the rain tried to wash them away, he crosses his arms and shuts his mouth.

“It isn’t.”

“Well, then,” Freddie says, he sounds resigned as he looks at Roger’s glossy eyes and John’s stern frown, “what is going on?”

“Why do you think there is anything more going on than what I have said?” He doesn’t mean for his voice to come out so sharp and aggressive and a touch too like the men that he has been in bed with these past few months.

“You’ve lost _a lot_ of weight,” Freddie says, “none of the tailored clothes we got for you are fitting properly during gigs.”

“And you look like you haven’t slept in a month.”

Brian rubs the graininess out of his eyes. His days have been filled with staying awake to hide from the nightmares that his sleep brings, and his nights are keeping people company when he is out of his head. He doesn’t remember when he had gotten to sleep for even his record six hours.

How far has he gone from himself now, that people are starting to finally see below the surface? How much of Brian May has he truly lost?

“I’m working on it,” he says.

Brian has no idea what to say. They see it. They don’t know what they are seeing, but they are seeing it, which means that he doesn’t have much left of himself to hide it.

Roger leans forward, his arms and legs open now. The glossy eyes are from tears, there aren’t any falling yet. John has a white-knuckled grasp on the cushion of the chair, one finger tapping frantically. Freddie’s hand is palm up on the sofa. He sees everything that they are offering, but he doesn’t have enough of himself to give.

The confession they had on the tip of their tongues months ago circles him. A snake lulling him into a false sense of security to strike. He sees it coming and he closes his eyes. They are going to say they love him and that he needs to let them help him.

Brian doesn’t _want_ help. He wants this to stop: the work. The drug. The nightmares. Everything.

Like the businessman without a cause of death but might have used drugs or the unnamed boy who died on the side of the street to only be a statistic for early deaths. Everything stopped for them.

“You’re destroying yourself,” Roger’s voice is barely a whisper, “I don’t know why, or if it’s for or because of someone, but you _are_ , Brian.”

His heart leaps into his throat and blocks the confession. He closes his eyes, he doesn’t want to make eye contact with any of them, afraid of what he will say or do.

“You’re destroying yourself,” Roger repeats, “and you have to stop this. We can’t watch it anymore.”

Brian snaps his head up and looks at Roger who is leaning away from him again. He bites down on his cheeks to keep the tirade from tumbling out. As though they had done _anything_ to help. They are giving up on him

He shakes his head, keeping his lips pressed tightly together. This is what he wants.

“Brian, either you figure it out, yourself out or the relationship, _whatever,_ or we leave.”

What? Brian doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know when they had done anything. Now they are leaving? Leaving. Brian snorts, blowing air out of his constantly sore nose.

“Is that all?”

“That’s all,” Roger says standing up and flicking his sunglasses over his eyes and puts his hands back in his pockets.

John has his lips pressed into a thin line looking between Roger and Brian before coughing and kicking a rut into the carpet.

“He’s right,” John says, “you need to do something, but we can’t do that for you or make you do it.”

All he feels like he has done this conversation is shake his head. He doesn’t know where this conversation is coming from. They hadn’t said anything to him before this, not a single, ‘get your head on right, boy’ before this. Brian furrows his brow wondering why they would sound like his father.

“And we’d help you, Brian, _we would,_ but you don’t want it. At least not from us, not right now.”

He looks at Freddie, “we’ve tried, Brimi. I know you like to suffer in silence.”

Roger had said the same thing – how long ago was that? There is pressure behind his nose, and he hopes that it isn’t another nosebleed. His eyes are burning.

“But we can let it go when it’s a bad test or if you’ve had a fight with your parents… this is something beyond that.”

He moves his lips, but his throat can’t form a sound.

“Brian, we won’t leave forever, but this is hurting us to see you do this to yourself,” Freddie moves closer and sets a hand over his.

Brian looks away.

“We can’t force you to want help or to get it, but please think about it.”

Instead of looking at John, Brian looks down at the carpet. Freddie inhales like he is going to say something again before stopping.

Then after a second, he pushes through whatever hesitation he felt, “remember what you told us not to do, that night when you got the amp? We’re still waiting for you to be in that place.”

Brian forces himself to keep looking at the ground, trying to find the stains, but they are currently covered up by Freddie’s white boots, they are so pristine and not a scuff in sight. He thinks about his white clogs which he doesn’t think will ever be white again.

It might be easier to throw them away. Freddie pats his hand twice and stands up, joining Roger and Deaky. They don’t move to the door for a few moments, but Brian keeps looking at the ground.

After another minute of that weird pause. Brian thinks it is the second before an important choice is made. One of them sighs and he hears disjointed footsteps as they leave his flat. He doesn’t look after them as the door shuts. Brian doesn’t move.

For the life of him, he can’t bring up any moment when they had done something beyond what they usually did for him. They never… they never…. _They never did a damn thing,_ Brian shakes his head. They cared, but he doesn’t know if they cared enough.

The burn behind his eyes tumbles over and he feels tears streak down his cheeks, darkening the ground below him. Brian doesn’t move to wipe them away; he keeps his head bowed. He can’t do this by himself, but they are making him do it alone.

His mind keeps going to the drawer in his bedroom. It would stop him from worrying about it for another few hours and maybe he would be desperate enough when he comes down to something. Anything.

He looks at the chair that Roger had been sitting in, cold and walled off. How Deaky had been behind Roger, determined but nervous. Freddie trying to reach out to him acting like he knew how this conversation would go.

Brian looks at Red in the corner. The light glints off her body and polished bridge. He doesn’t have anything to say to her, but she is a witness to everything. She will spill the truth when he plays her again and sees how she forms the notes. Red will tell him how she felt.

Except for all that Red is a vessel – and extension of himself – she is a guitar and Brian is alone. He feels the walls pressing into him, the soft murmurs of himself begging for forgiveness. Begging for a change.

Begging for all of this to end. His knees hit the carpeted ground, and his fingers pull at the tightly woven threads.

"I need help," Brian shouts into the empty room, three hours too late for an argument that might have saved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well   
> You know.  
> Everyone has boundaries, right?
> 
> As always, please leave your thoughts and feelings below or come talk to me on tumblr!!


	10. no cure for me but i have some medicine (why does it hurt to feel alive)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, we're on time this week! That's super fun.  
> This chapter gets a bit squicky, so please read with caution.

Brian tries to not think about the night that his band – is he still in the band? They have not booked anything, and they are stuck until someone signs them, they hadn’t kicked him out – came and gave the ultimatum.

He doesn’t want to think of it like that, except he does not know what else to call it but that. They said that it was either he ‘figured himself out’ or they would leave. Freddie assured him that they would be there for when he wants their help but until then he is not in their life. What do they want from him?

Brian knows what he wants – but his wants fight each other. He used to have bliss-filled nights, they involved cheap alcohol and worse food and so much laughter his belly hurts. And music. He could get away from this life he thinks if he doesn’t know what the other bliss-filled nights are like, being fucked doesn’t bother him so much now but he might claim to love being high. The nights he has now are synthetic bliss and it is so much easier than actually being happy.

There is a way out, he knows there is, but he can’t navigate it with a muddled head, and he isn’t strong enough to do it on his own. His bandmates don’t want anything to do with him until he figures it out.

So, until he breaks the habit there is no use in being homeless he knows that the boys won’t let him in. None of the people that he knows have broken out of their cycle, either content enough or also under a power they can’t fight. They won’t help him either, as he grows in demand with his Handler those few strangers, he could find on the street vanished.

He wonders what kind of things they know about his Handler that he doesn’t. A lot, he figures, because he doesn’t know much about his Handler other than how his cock tastes.

Brian keeps his head down, walking with a slow purpose. He knows that he shouldn’t be out here, especially hanging out around during working hours but he needs to talk to someone. Someone who knows this life, this world. The band wouldn’t get it, they might say something as foolish as “just stop.”

He doesn’t know why he can’t. Brian _does_ but he refuses to say the words even as he smacks his lips together and sniffs. The bloody noses are getting worse.

“Bunny boy,” someone calls.

He turns around. Brian doesn’t remember this one. Her dark hair pulled up into a half-decent bun and embracing the warmth with a dress that barely covers her. She is nearly falling out of the top and he wonders if she purposely bought the dress sizes too small or if that was all she could find that makes a passable “work uniform.”

“You got your fancy digs, why scavenge around here?”

He shakes his head, “not scavenging.”

The woman raises a brow and scoffs, “what are you doing down here then?”

“Peaches,” he blurts, “I’m looking for her.”

The woman’s face shifts, Brian would have called it annoyed before but now it is something else – something that looks a mix between sick, sad, and relieved.

“Hasn’t been around in a week or two,” the woman replies, “not even ‘round her apartment. Some says she skipped town.”

Brian tilts his head, “skipped town?”

“Got herself a rich lover or somethin’,” the woman spins her hands, “some say she stole from a rich client. No one knows a damn thing, but they sure do like talking about it.”

“So, she’s gone?”

“That’s the truth of it,” the woman nods.

He looks down the street and wonders if it is worth checking to see if she is there himself. But he knows that the streets rarely lie, and if they know she is gone then she is gone. Brian needs to talk to her though and maybe this is the one time something can work out for him. If Peaches gets out, when she has been doing this for longer than Brian can imagine, then there must be a way.

“Thanks.”

“Now shoo before you spook everyone off.”

Brian sticks his hands in his pocket and walks to her alley anyway. He hums along to _Jesus_ as it pops into his head. Almost sad that they haven’t had but the one call from that executive who wasn’t willing to give them a good price. He knows there is a label that wants them.

Perhaps they will get signed once he steps away from the band. He knows they are already whispering in the music community about Queen selling out.

Brian stops when he hears rustling in Peaches’ alley. He feels excitement as something is finally _, finally_ going right for him, only to be approached by a twenty-something kid with wide eyes and a shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He bites his bottom lip and Brian sighs.

“Don’t,” he says, “go home. Talk to your parents. Don’t start this.”

The kid squares his shoulders and opens his mouth. Brian shakes his head and folds his fists in his pockets, “I promise the money isn’t worth it.”

This time the kid backs away and looks like he is thinking about it. Brian turns on his heel and heads back the way he came. Wishing that he had someone to say that to him, that for that one beautiful second, he followed through with calling Freddie, Roger, or John, and explaining this stupid idea to keep him from getting evicted.

He sits down on the ledge of the street, feet stretched out in front of him, but safe from any reckless driver because of the sedan he is hiding behind. Brian looks up at the sky and then down to his lap, wiping his arm across his eyes once.

The exhaustion drapes him over, and his chest is almost touching his knees as he tries to keep the sobbing to a minimum. For now, he wants to stay away from his house knowing what he is going to do when he gets home.

Brian hopes that Peaches is living her best life in New Orleans, that he can meet her again someday.

* * *

He doesn’t know how much he took tonight. All he knows is how his skin is buzzing beautifully and his head is far away from that dark place that it has been these past few days. The client pushes them through the third round, Brian laying on his back pliant and not feeling much but the slide of his back against the sheets. The welts nothing more than a distant memory

It had been horrid to stay in his flat waiting for him to figure himself out and as much as he hates this, he does like having a place that he feels safe in. For all that it is filled with dingy wallpaper and probably more mold than is habitable. Maybe he should have just moved into a cheaper place.

His client rakes their blunt nails down the side of his ribs and Brian takes that as he cue to moan loudly, forcing air through his lungs deep and fast, gasping in pleasure.

His heart feels like he has run a marathon. The nails vanish from his ribs and the hand appears next to his head deflating the pillow. Brian curls his toes against whatever skin they are near, listening as his client’s moans grow less certain. It won’t take long before he is coming.

Brian stares up at the ceiling tossing in an occasional noise of encouragement, trying to remember where his thoughts had been before the disturbance. No topic comes to mind, so he counts how many times the man thrusts into him before coming again.

It is only six, but this is the third round so Brian tags him as above average in his mind. The client slips out of his body and tosses the condom over the side. Brian rolls over, out of the sticky mess his lower back had been in, and stares at the clock. Still a bit too early to leave, but he doesn’t want to linger.

Brian slides out of his bed, his toenails catching on the silk sheets before he starts gathering his clothes, making sure they are his and not the client’s. The last client's clothes that he had accidentally taken ended up in a homeless man’s possession, or Brian hopes it did, he left the nice shirt hanging out of the garbage for a reason.

The blood had mostly come out and while it looked like an odd place for a sauce stain it could be explained away as one. He supposes that a homeless person might not care about mysterious stains or explaining them away.

Brian slides his socks on, pausing when he stares down and the black fabric. He used to have a specific way of doing it. Which way had that been?

He shakes his head, giggling at the dizziness that he feels as he does so and stopping just before the cramping in his stomach turns bad. Brian grabs his jeans and slides them up, not caring to do them up and them pulling the t-shirt on. The client is snoring soundly on the bed. He grabs the tip that he had been told about as soon as his chest hit the bed the first time and finally does up his jeans as he steps outside.

Recently the car has been parking closer. He doesn’t know if the amount of discretion that the clients need has gone down or to prevent another night like the church night where he had been unaccounted for hours.

The driver opens the door and then none too gently pushes him inside. Brian giggles again at the air leaving the leather seat and the noise as he adjusts. His Handler rolls his eyes.

“Glad to see you got something out of it,” he remarks.

Brian hums. He is glad that he wouldn’t have to use his stash for a few hours after getting home. Maybe he should just let this crash hit him and then get himself clean. He is done with this life after all or will be soon.

This isn’t a choice for him anymore.

“Anyway,” his Handler clears his throat, “I’m going to explain something to you, not that I think you will remember much of it.”

He hums again, drawing a shape on the foggy window. His wrist is wretched away and Brian follows the hand up to his Handler’s face which is set in a firm line. Usually, his face is neutral so Brian tilts his head, the sick crawl of fear coming back as he is reminded of who exactly this man _could_ be.

“Your next client is going to be someone very important,” his Handler says, “I want you looking good and I want you to be sober. Completely, by the time we come to pick you up.”

Brian nods his head, “look hot and sober, got it.”

He didn’t want to say that. He wanted to tell his Handler that he was quitting, but if this client is that important then maybe he can set himself ahead if he does a good job. The tip should be good.

“And I know this goes without saying, but don’t tell anyone where you’re going for the night.”

He doesn’t have anyone to tell anymore. Brian nods his head and his wrist is dropped, he snatches it back to his body and waits for any more of this important client information. His Handler pulls out his pay for the night and gives it to him.

“Don’t do _anything_ you would regret,” his handler says, “because I _will_ make you regret it.”

Brian frowns, “is this another one of those clients I’m not getting paid for?”

“Yes,” his Handler says, “I suspect it won’t be a problem? They promised to tip very well.”

It is a problem. Brian wants to say that, he could leave and walk home right now, “no.”

“Good, now, go back to wherever it is you like,” his Handler sits back in his seat.

Brian turns his head and he can already feel the high wearing off. The news of this new and important client is setting alarm bells off in his head. They are annoying and grating and he wants them to turn off. He still has those tablets that his Handler likes to give him before clients, and while Brian hates how they make him feel, slow and boneless, it will make the crash stay away longer.

So, he drops one in his mouth and swallows, then closes his eyes.

His entire head is spinning, and he has double vision and it is a surprise when they stop. He staggers out of the car, which doesn’t wait to see if he can walk the block to his flat and turns out of sight. This isn’t what he felt like last time he took it, but then again, he always tries to keep from mixing things because he still doesn’t exactly know what is in the tablets. Only what it does and it makes his stomach feel like it is fizzy.

Brian doubles over, digging his nails into his knees trying to keep his balance but he nearly tumbles over his head. He looks around and there is no one on the streets nor is there anyone with their lights on. Not like he would go to them for help. His throat feels sticky and he thinks that he might not be able to form words. At the very least he does know how to get to his flat from here. It is hard walking in a straight light, as though he is drunk hopping to the right three times and then trying to correct himself and walking straight into a streetlamp.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

Brian keeps his hands in from of him and then out to the side to keep his balance. The high still feels nice, but he wishes that he didn’t have to pay attention to how he is walking because then he could enjoy the blissful goo his thoughts have become. He shrugs and then tips over but fights his way until he finally reaches the landing of his apartment.

The steps are steep and there are a lot of them. Brian looks at the landing that leads to the upstairs apartments and wonders if they would arrest him for sleeping on the steps at the place he lives in. He doesn’t want to risk that while he probably has residue around his nose. Brian rubs at it and pushes his head back. The world starts spinning again and he leans forward to grab onto the railing to try and steady himself from taking a header down the stairs.

Once he breathes through the dizziness and crash of nausea, he takes the first step. Making sure to plant both feet on it before trying to get down the second one. The first few are easy but as he lifts on leg up the ground jumps underneath him and he loses his balance. His arm groans in pain as he keeps it on the railing, but his head hits one of the stairs and he slides down the rest.

He might have tumbled down one, his clog had been by his ear for a second. Brain sprawls on the stairs and looks up at the night sky. There is a throbbing in his arm and then in his lower back and he is not sure that the two are related but they both hurt and his stomach is now deciding to rebel and he barely turns over in time to avoid choking on his own sick.

Brian figures that he should probably move but his body is keeping him still. Everything hurts and everything is fuzzy and he decides that this is the worst trip he has had because he can still feel pain and he specifically does _those_ things to avoid feeling pain. But he can’t get up and what pain he is feeling is along his spine, so he doesn’t know that it is a particularly good idea to move either.

A thud startles him and then he hears rapid footsteps. For a second when he looks up, he thinks it's Roger, with his hair done up like he sometimes does when it gets too hot for drumming. The eyes aren’t the right shade of blue. The voice is far too feminine for Roger, which Brian giggles at because they make fun of Roger’s dog-whistle voice.

Or he used to be able to make fun of his voice.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” the woman says.

“Landlady,” Brian blurts once he realizes who is above him.

“That’s me,” she says panicky and shaking, “we should get you to the hospital.”

Brian would shake his head, but he doesn’t want to vomit on an elderly lady and now that there is a lot of noise next to him he feels like he is going to vomit just to relieve the pain in his head.

“Can you stand?”

Brian stares at where he thinks her face is. She has a twin at the moment. He did hit his head but it might be the drug and going to the hospital is a good idea but Brian took a lot of drugs tonight. They don’t have to report that, right?

He doesn’t remember and his head is starting to hurt too much to think. Instead of thinking he lets the woman guide him up. Carefully avoiding using his bad arm, Brian wonders what he has done to it because it is his left arm and he needs the dexterity.

Then again, the band did leave him so maybe he doesn’t need it as much as he thinks.

“You’ll be fine, back to playing in no time.”

Brian clicks his mouth shut and wonders what exactly came out of his mouth. When had he opened it? But the more exciting news is that it was open, and he didn’t vomit on his landlady.

“I’m taking you to the hospital. I don’t want the whole neighborhood thinking that my building is unsafe.”

Brian nods, then coughs. He spits to clear his mouth and the back of his throat fills with that coppery tang. Seven…six…five…four…three…two…he feels liquid gush out of his nose. The landlady screams in shock and hurries to stand him up quicker.

It hurts his head and sparkles fly in front of his eyes. Brian closes them but decides that is a bad idea because he feels his brain having trouble deciding what is up and what is down. Why does his brain feel so wiggly?

His feet don’t feel like working, but with one arm wrapped around her shoulders and the other hanging painfully at his sides, he thinks that she can at least drop him on the sidewalk to die a pitiful but slightly more comfortable death.

* * *

He doesn’t know where the landlady’s husband comes from, but he had been cursing about him not ruining the car and that it will be tagged onto the rent – which made Brian gag again.

Brian is glad that at least he arrives at the ER with little fanfare. There are not many people in the waiting room and he only had to have the car stopped once so he could lean out. They had shoved a flower pot in his lap after that.

The receptionist looks up with a lifted brow.

“I fell down the steps,” Brian tells her helpfully, and more than a little slurred.

The landlady explains how she found him, and Brian tries to stand straight but ends up stepping to the side to regain his balance. Thankfully, that seems to get the receptionist to page a nurse to take them back. They do take his flowerpot and he hopes it goes back to his landlady, it seemed like a nice pot.

He lays down on a bed, which is nice. The sheets aren’t too nice, but not being upright is helping the spinning of the world. Brian laughs, because the spinning doesn’t stop because the Earth is rotating – ow his head hurts.

Another nurse greets him, “hello… Mr…?”

“May.”

“Great,” there is a scratch of a pen, “and can you tell me what your first name is and birthday?”

Brian spends a second parsing through the question. He knows the answer to both but it seems like they are playing hide and seek with him.

“Brian,” he says, “July… 21? No, July 26… that’s Rogers… July 19.”

“Okay, and Mr. May, can you tell me what today’s date is?”

He stares at her. She stares back. After a minute she bobs her head and writes something down. Brian feels like he just failed a test.

“You took what looks like a pretty nasty fall, I’m sure once we get you looked at you can tell us the date all you want.”

He doesn’t say anything else while she checks the different instruments and starts hooking them up to his chest. She keeps asking him if he wants to sleep and he keeps replying no, but he is sure that once the last of the coke clears his system and it is just the weird tablet that is left in his system he will want to.

“I can’t have you falling asleep,” she says anyway, “so I’m going to sit you upright.”

The bed creaks and Brian whines as the change in position causes the world to start aggressively spinning again.

“Do you remember hitting your head, at all? Did you lose consciousness?”

“Don’t remember it much. My arm hurts but was awake.”

The nurse writes that down as well before sliding the chart into the holder at the end of his bed. She turns around, her white shoes squeaking on the floor, and offers a friendly customer service smile.

“The doctor will be with you shortly, Mr. May, we’ll get all of this squared away.”

Brian looks up at the ceiling again, with nothing else to do to occupy his thoughts. Not that he wants to think too hard about much right now because the room is still spinning, and his head is hurting worse than any hangover he has ever had. He wonders who is going to show up for him if anyone will. His mum and dad are still listed but so are his bandmates.

He doesn’t want that. His parents are only slightly better, but that is because they haven’t given him an ultimatum and haven’t seen what a terrible person he has become in these months. They will be shocked when they see him though, proof of a bloody nose and too thin cheeks and probably a litany of bruises now that he has fallen down the steps.

The blood under his nose tickles and he wiggles his upper lip to break it up from pulling on his skin too badly. When it doesn’t stop tickling, he raises his arm, only to cry out when he feels the pain of it as it races from his elbow to his shoulder. He sets it down and continues to wiggle his lip and nose to make it less itchy. Brian doesn’t know how long he sat there, but eventually, a doctor comes in with a crisp white coat and a slightly exhausted set to his shoulders.

“You had quite a fall, have a good night before at least?” The doctor laughs.

He grimaces, “not particularly.”

It takes him a second to realize what the doctor had been hinting at, he wonders how the doctor knows and what else the doctor could find out.

“What a shame then. We’re going to get some scans of your head and arm. Make sure the nose isn’t broken and nothing happened to that arm and then we will get you cleaned up a bit before moving further.”

With that, the doctor is gone again. Brian frowns at the lack of an introduction, but he finds that since the doctor didn’t ask for his name there is no point in Brian getting his. He doesn’t know that he would remember it properly or accurately in five minutes.

The lights get turned on and he closes his eyes to cut out the brightness. God, how did he let this get so bad?

* * *

Brian looks at the wall. He purses his lips, trying to remember when he rolled over and why he doesn’t remember rolling over. He rubs the heel of his foot against his eyes. His head throbs.

Slowly, he rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. He closes his eyes again, trying to not sleep as the nurse asked him to, but he must have already fallen asleep. Brian scoots up and looks around for a clock it had been late morning when they had finished the tests.

He looks to the door, almost expecting the nurse to come back in and talk to him, she has a sixth sense he thinks. Each time he had needed something she was already entering the room. The last time she had given him something for the pain. Brian crosses his eyes in thought, which hurts his head, does he need anything?

He pulls the thin blanket up on his chest higher, picking on the loose thread, had he been thinking about anything before he realized he turned over? There are flashes of words – but he doesn’t know what they’re saying. Those voices belong to his bandmates. A dream then? A dream that was slowly slipping away the longer he is awake.

The doctor knocks twice, “Mr. May, I’m happy to see you’re awake.”

“Sorry, wasn’t supposed to sleep, right?” Brian scratches his jaw, feeling the sharp stubble.

“It’s alright,” the doctor says, “you woke up and that is what we consider important.”

Brian grimaces and rubs his stomach. He doesn’t feel any more sober, maybe it had only been a few minutes? His head feels dizzy, quicker dizziness than he had before. He sits up and his head in both hands, bending his fingers against his scalp.

“Mr. May?”

The doctor’s voice sounds warbled and far away, like yelling into a broken microphone. He tries to pull his head out of his hands and tell him what is happening, but he feels like he is locked in place. Through the gaps in his fingers, he sees black dots flare. Something is pulling his hands away, then Brian’s eyes flutter closed vaguely aware that he is falling backward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahah! A cliffhanger finally!   
> For the 10th chapter in a row, poor Brian. Maybe he starts turning things around now? We are nearing the home stretch so many 
> 
> As always, leave your thoughts and comments below or come talk to me on tumblr!


	11. worn out ship gone over the horizon (this kid just spoke to death)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!
> 
> This chapter is also pretty squicky, please read with caution.

There is a cut on the back of his head that he feels every time he lays down or sits up too quickly. He had begged the nurse and doctor to not shave his hair and it probably should have been stitched or stapled shut, but Brian will let it close on his own. Anything to get out of that hospital quicker.

He convinced his parents that they didn’t need to come down, that everything is minor – “Nothing to worry about, mom. I just fell” – and that he is fine to return home on his own. He left so quickly to make sure that the band wouldn’t accidentally stumble across the landlady or her husband and have his tale told a hundred times without him being able to control the spin.

The downside of not having properly closed the cut means that he cannot go a night without ruining a pillowcase. Not that he is sleeping much between the throbbing head and throbbing back. Brian can’t stop shivering and shaking and keeps less food down than he normally would.

Ever since snapping back to reality after a nurse shoved a syringe through his IV – apparently, he had been getting dangerously close to crashing the staff thought an allergic reaction, Brian knows it was an overdose – he has managed to fight the urge to bury his face in powder.

He didn’t expect his body to react so violently to the lack of cocaine, however.

Brian doesn’t think that he can get out of bed, his joints ache leaving him locked in place. That first day the fresh air had been invigorating, with double vision clearing and a hospital bracelet on his wrist he had gone around and picked up a few applications. They sit on his desk where the tin can use to be.

He will fill them out when his hands can steadily grasp a pen. His Handler had said to be sober for this client, so Brian thinks drying out a week before is the best he can do. This _is_ his last client.

Brian wonders if he would have died had he not gone to the hospital that night, or if it was caused by keeping it secret from the staff. Whatever the reason, it has shaken him out of whatever muddy stupor he has been in. He can do one last client, a client that promises to tip well and he can rebuild his resolve again once he finishes his night with the client.

He is going to need some false courage to tell his Handler that he is out. Then he is going to dry out again and finish the applications and then talk to the band and bury it as a hard time. They won’t know what he did, and Brian doesn’t think he remembers most of it. Not that he wants to remember _any_ of it.

It is strange laying on his bed and remembering how everything feels. The scratchiness of his sheets and the smell of his neighbor’s constant baking. His nose still bleeds but right now, he feels like he has finally caught that breath of air. These are the things he used to love noticing.

One more client _,_ he tells himself.

He feels that he means it too.

Brian rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. This time it isn’t spinning or layered with any strange lines. The back of his head starts hurting after only a few seconds and he rolls back onto his good side. His shoulder is only sprained and so long as he mostly keeps it immobile then it doesn’t cause him many problems. Not being able to get out of bed is doing him more good than harm now.

He looks at the calendar. There are tiny little dots in the boxes of the days that he is managed to go without anything in his system. It had been a sign of progress to cross out the squares, which made him feel productive. There are only three now, but he knows there will be more. Feels it.

This client is the last one, he swears it. After this client, he is going to throw everything away that reminds him of this life. He will move out too once he has a new job. Write more songs!

He leans over the side of the bed and vomits into the bucket. The inspiring hope from just a few moments ago evaporates as bile stings the inside of his throat. It feels raw like he had eaten too many lemons and his entire body trembles.

Another wave of the withdrawal washes over him and Brian bites out a sob. The ache in his lower abdomen, the craving in his mouth, how his body shakes because he is freezing but his clothes are sticky from the sweat. He presses his forehead to the rim of the rubbish bin.

His head is still throbbing and it feels like it might have started to bleed again. He coughs and spits into the bucket. Brian wants a shower. It would feel to have warm water cascading down his skin, wiping away the sweat, warming him up. The steam clearing up his nose.

A shower. A shower. A shower, he thinks. He wants one. Even if he has to sit down in the tub because his legs are too weak to hold him up, just having the warm water hit his face. Wet his dry skin.

Take a shower, he groans. Brian thinks about moving his legs and going to the bathroom. He thinks about standing. It would be so easy to get up and go to the restroom and get the shower.

But his legs don’t move. He doesn’t stand up. He keeps pressing his forehead to the bin, and rubbing it as the acid from his stomach burns his nose. Brian smacks his lips and thinks about how to fix how he is feeling. There is a fix in his nightstand drawer.

He manages to set the bin down on the floor and lay back down. The nightstand doesn’t move, but he can hear it calling to him. It would be so easy to reach his arm over and grab a bag, dip his finger in it and run it along his gums because he knows that right now, he can’t stand to do a proper line. But… if he did a line then he could stand in the shower.

His body shakes with the force of his sobs. Brian just wants to get away from that siren’s call and take a shower. He is strong enough to do that, but the bright smiles of his bandmates when he returns to them as Brian May slowly get covered in a fine white powder.

* * *

Brian does manage to shower the night he is meant to go to this mysterious and important client. He wishes there were more dots on his calendar this week, but he had only been able to add one more box. His heart twists in guilt, but until this night is over this is still his life.

It hurts him less if he does it his usual way. He doesn’t want to break his Handler’s order, so he is sober. Brian doesn’t want to be, so he only slips a bag in his pocket as a precaution and as a safety net. Dodging off to the bathroom in the middle of a meeting isn’t something that he is unfamiliar with and no one has ever thought it strange enough to comment.

He is sure they did notice it because he knows that his personality feels like it does a complete turn when high, but people are either kind enough or didn’t care enough to comment on it. Brian tugs down on the blazer before he slips into the car. To his neighbor, it must look like he is going to a fancy gala or has an expensive dinner date.

As usual, his Handler is passive once he gives an approving nod to Brian’s attire for the night. There have been moments when Brian thought to dress like the kid that is going to throw himself off the bridge just to see what his Handler would do. Only, Brian has never been that brave and the thought of losing the money and then ending up on the streets and then dying nameless and having no one care about you has kept him in line.

“You’re not to use names,” his Handler says.

Brian thinks it is a little useless. He does not know the names of any of these people that is he has fucked. There might have been a surname that got lodged into his brain, but it wasn’t anything that he could use against them. They would just turn it on him and make him look like the villain.

That is what Peaches had told him. That the people they fuck have all the power, have all the money. It doesn’t matter that they paid for something illegal, the ones that are selling sex are going to be the ones punished because what she and Brian are doing is the crime, they can make to look worse.

_“What are they going to do, cher? They either have to convict a minister or some drugged up prostitute. You have to learn how this game is played.”_

Brian may have figured out the rules, but he doesn’t know when the game ends. For some it might be death, there was a body found on the bank of the river that was a ‘suspected prostitute’ and that was all the news coverage that she got. Now that the band has not spoken with him in ages, he knows that it would take some time for anyone to notice that he is missing.

This is why tonight is his last night. He leans back against the leather, keeping his tongue between his teeth. It is too early to say that to his Handler now, this client is too mysterious, apparently too important. Brian might feel honored if he didn’t feel like they chose him for reasons other than he makes good money.

They drive for what feels like hours. Brian doesn’t look out of the window, too afraid to see something that might tell him where he is going. This might be illegal… and then he laughs at himself as though adding one more broken law to his resume is something he should care about.

He still hasn’t thought about a reason for the gap in his employment. It is only a few months, but still, does he say he was searching for a job that entire time? Then the question is why didn’t they hire him? It seems unlikely that none would tell him why they wouldn’t hire him.

He starts to pick at a hangnail, biting down hard on it, wishing that he didn’t have to be completely sober for this meeting. Dot on the calendar be dammed.

“Get out,” his Handler says. Brian does and looks up.

They are at one of the fanciest hotels in the middle of London. The types that world leaders might stay if they were to visit. Certainly, something out of Brian’s price range, and probably four months’ rent to have a room for the night.

His Handler presses a card into his hand and then looks at the hotel.

“Remember, discretion. Top floor. That card should get you there. It’s a suite so don’t worry about anyone else being around.”

With that Brian is shoved out of the car. He twists the card in his hand and slips through the door as the bellhop opens it for him. He is overwhelmed with beautiful, gilded wood and a beige colored marble on the floor. Brian searches around until he finds the elevator.

He fumbles a few times to swipe it to unlock the floor selection pad and then keeps pressing the door closed button even as his stomach turns when he sees someone yelling to hold the elevator. There is nothing that urgent this late at night that he needs an elevator held. At least that is what Brian tries to console himself with, the door slowly closing.

“Sorry, sir,” Brian mumbles and then steps back until he is touching the wall furthest from the door.

He runs his hand down his shirt wiping the sweat off it. Then sticks his hand back into his pocket and fumbles with the bag and wonders if he can get away with taking it now. Brian shakes his head, he doesn’t know who he is dealing with so he thinks for once it might be the safest option to go in sober.

“Well, it’s always safer to have your wits about you,” he says.

Then frowns, wondering if it was from a book that Roger had read that he heard that line. He shrugs and lets out a long breath as he bangs his head against the wood of the elevator. Groaning as it hits the sore spot.

“Shit,” he curses and reaches up.

His hand doesn’t come away bloody, so he wipes it on his jacket this time and places it in the pocket with his wallet. This time he had taken out anything that could identify him but a library card that doesn’t have his name on it and a few bills in case he got stranded and needed to use the tube – he left the card at home _again._

The hallway that the elevator opens to is grand. There is a skylight in the middle of it, and the moon is the only lighting. His footsteps are softened by plush carpet.

He licks his lips and keeps putting one foot in front of the other, before raising his hand and knocking on the door. There isn’t an answer. Was he supposed to go in? He has the key card. Brian knocks again afraid of walking into something.

What if it is the boss of whatever organization his Handler works for? Brian shakes his head, they would probably use some very pretty woman if this was some kind of appeasement.

When the door doesn’t open, Brian slides the card in and pushes the handle of the door down, making sure to cover his palm with his sleeve and steps in. He takes his shoes off and nudges them next to the other pair, shiny black leather that has an Italian name sewn into the insert.

Someone is talking. Brian makes himself scarce to not be a nuisance to whatever his client is doing but he is loud enough that the client should know that he is not alone. Brian clicks his tongue at the size of this room. It is as large as his entire flat, it even has a balcony.

The wall with the balcony is entirely windows. He sees the lights of London twinkle like fallen stars. Brian nervously shuffles over to the bed pulling his coat off and setting it across the chair. He feels underdressed even standing in this room. The jeans are new and his socks don’t have holes and he found a woman’s shirt that hugs him in all the right places but leaves his shoulders open to the world. It is a lovely soft gray.

There was one in red, but when he bought it, he had never intended to wear it for this. Rather the sweater was something that he thought about wearing on his first date with whichever one of the band he chose (and in his wildest dreams all three of them).

He sits on the bed and crosses one leg over the other and then shakes his head. Brian places both feet on the ground, slightly splayed out but his knees together, then he leans back making sure his chest is open to the world. To make him seem approachable, make the client comfortable. All Brian wants to do is hide under the bed.

Eventually, the conversation ends in the other room and Brian hears someone move through the suite. It sounds like fabric is getting thrown around. He lowers his eyes under hooded lids and bites his lips, praying that he looks as sexy as he thinks he should.

His eyes do not leave the door, wondering who is going to walk through. A politician? A powerful lawyer? The prince himself? Brian thinks deliriously. No.

Brian knows this man, but it is not anyone that could make him disappear. Rather he would think that impossible, and under normal circumstances, he could not fear for his safety in front of this man. He remembers the northern accent and the genuine smile on TV. How he felt getting the grime wiped from him in the restroom of his building.

His client is William Fletcher.

William looks him up and down and clicks his tongue once. Brian straightens up and the man smiles at that.

“They didn’t lie, you _are_ pretty. And trained.”

Brian bites down on his lip harder. The man looks him up and down and then laughs again.

“I’ve seen you before,” he chuckles, “I know I have, but I can’t place it. Someone so stunning is hard to forget.”

His voice is stuck in his throat. This man, who is supposed to be _helping_ people like him. A man that said he saw the horror and felt the need to help hires one to warm his bed. Tears burn in his eyes, but he blinks them away. No use in crying now.

Someone had said that people do not trust those buildings yet, and Brian can see why.

“I guess you know me?” William says.

“I’ve seen your interviews,” Brian says tone clipped and exhausted.

William nods, “yes, I imagine you have. Now, have you visited my buildings lately?”

Brian shakes his head.

“No?”

“No, I haven’t had much of a reason.”

“Figures you like it,” William slides his tie from his throat, “most that don’t, don’t make it this long.”

Brian wants to shake his head and disagree, but William has him pinned down with his sharp gaze. He shivers but with a tiny adjustment of his posture, it looks more like a sexy shiver. Are shivers even sexy? Brian wonders.

Hands go under his chin and lift his face, Brian meets his eyes before looking away and then out of the window. The clouds that had been hanging over the city are growing darker and the moon is quickly being covered up by them.

He hates the rain.

“Oh, like do you like that view?” William says.

“S’pretty,” Brian hums and tries to move away from the pressure the fingers are giving under his jaw. It is making him stretch his neck out.

“You know, I get to mark you all up tonight.”

Brian isn’t surprised by this. He is sure that his “do whatever to please the client” mentality is going to have to go further than usual. His head is lower, but Brian keeps it angled because William is fascinated by his neck, he keeps trailing fingers down it.

“What pretty skin.”

He wants to go home or be high. Brian thinks the latter might be better right now with how the fingers are pressing along his shoulders. This man is so different than the one on TV. That man had been a person he imagined wanted to help people.

Why did he stop the boy from mugging that woman? Was it because he was there or was it because other people were watching him? Brian bites his cheek to keep from scowling. At least everyone else he is let fuck him had the decency to care what they were doing is wrong.

“Go, shower, clean yourself, and come out naked.”

Brian swallows the objection he wants to spit. A shower does sound nice and it would keep him away from this man’s dirty hands for longer. He knows that he is going to not be sober to get through this without crying. The client’s preference is dammed, Brian wants to be sane by the end of the night.

William’s eyes stay on him as he slips from the bed, grabbing his jacket as he goes, batting his eyelids and swaying his hips to distract from the strange movement. It might be to protect what meager cash he has, but he doubts that William cares. Brian needs to think of another name. Calling him William makes him more than another unfortunate night.

He looks around the shower, which is probably larger than his entire bedroom. It has brown stone from wall to floor, and the ceiling is covered in mirrors. Brian looks at himself as he looks down at himself. Slowly he sets everything to the side, folding it and resting it on the counter.

The last thing to come off is the sweater. Freddie would have loved him in it. John would have liked the color, and Roger would have made some comment about him being cheeky. Brian closes his eyes and practically rips it from his body.

He has not used the mirror in his flat but for a scant few minutes. The longest he had used it was when he was looking from the cut on the back of his head to put the ointment on it and then to messily style his hair before coming here. Anytime else he avoided it.

Now surrounded by mirrors Brian can’t help but look at himself. His collarbones are prominent, sticking out a bit like bird wings. There is nothing on his arms but scratch marks from the time before last when he thought there might have been spiders crawling under his skin.

A few bruises linger from his fall.

His stomach is sunken in and he can almost see every rib. He slouches but even that is not enough to have any pudge. Finally, he drags his eyes up from his softened member to his face. His eyes are dull and hidden in the shadow of his face, highlighted by the clarity that you can see his cheekbones. His lips are open and chapped. He licks them and then tries to force a smile.

No wonder why people started noticing, Brian doesn’t think he looks very alive.

When he pulls his eyes away from the mirror, he examines the shower. It is not anything complicated, but he keeps the water cooler than he might normally like it. Letting it wash over him. Each splash against his skin feels like another hand raking down his body and touching him. He wants it to stop, but he doesn’t remember when he hadn’t been touched to be used for sex.

John. He thinks the last time had been John. When they had too much Indian food and they were on his couch. The days before the scummy music executive.

Brian shakes his head, trying to force any thoughts that made him Brian from his brain. He doesn’t want them to come into this life, to have that association.

To be another ghost hand scratching his back. It isn’t long before he feels a riding crop slam into his shoulder over and over again, but now it feels like it's slamming into his head and he’s shaking. Brian steps out of the shower and fumbles for his coat trying to pull the bag out of the pocket.

He grabs the little mirror that complimentary shampoo and lotion are on and dumps the bag on it. Brian reaches into his coat to reach for his library card to cut the lines. It is frightening how straight he can get them now when he used to have to fumble his way through it.

Brian bends down and inhales sharply. Letting himself breathe. He wants to drop back into the haze, but it takes much more than just one line these days. Might take more than this bag to make him forget about the hands groping his ass and the liar of a man he is about to let touch him like this.

He bends down and prays for an overdose.

* * *

The coke only takes a few minutes to blur his thoughts together. He looks at himself and tries to figure out why he is here. Bad things always happen. The Woman didn’t get mugged, but she got murdered. The Teen didn’t steal, so he starved. The Businessman couldn’t fix his life, so he broke it permanently.

A cough from the bedroom lures him away from the mirror.

The Hero is the villain.

Brian doesn’t think that William is going to care that he is high. His four days of being sober- _ish_ don’t mean anything to him now that he has the coke thrumming in his head and his veins. His hair drips down his bare spine and he has a wide vacant smile on his face.

William doesn’t say anything but gestures to the bed. Brian crawls on it, laying back with his legs parted. The overhead lights go off, leaving the room barely illuminated. As William’s hands crawl over his body, it leaves hot spots across Brian’s skin, like tiny pellets of lava striking him.

He gasps as his member is brushed and it starts to fill, the coke finally reaching there. Brian whines as the touch gets too intense. It is just another client; he thinks to himself. He spreads his legs wider at William’s urging – the client’s urging he tries to correct in his head – don’t give him a name.

His father wouldn’t let him name any of the kittens that he found. Said it would make them too hard to get rid of. Don’t give this man a name. Brian whines when a thumb brushes over his nipple, he arches his back and pants but then turns his head away from William’s gaze. Lips brush against his cheek, and then down his throat.

This isn’t right. He doesn’t want attention like this from a job. His heart is vibrating in his chest and his cock is achingly hard between his legs. Fingers press down his sides, making him shiver as William wraps one of Brian’s legs over his shoulder. Brian hums at the stretch and tries to focus on anything but the touch.

It has started to rain heavier. He hears the tap-tap-tap of the weather hitting the glass. The lights of London are sun-bursting in the droplets on the window.

A finger slips in between his arse cheeks and almost too lightly, as though attempting to tickle, it curls against the opening. The finger doesn’t go further and the hand skates up to his balls, fondling them a touch too harsh. Brian tosses his head to stare at the wall the bathroom is attached to. This isn’t rough at all – well it isn’t rough like he is used to – and it makes his legs shake.

He knows the name, and this isn’t bad sex. William is thinking about him. Caring about his pleasure. Brian moans as William’s thumb presses against a sensitive spot just below the head of his cock. Brian gasps and it doesn’t sound as faked as it normally is.

William chuckles, pressing against it again, “you like it? Does it feel good?”

Brian stares as the words ram underneath his vibrating heart and his thoughts are scattered in fine dust. He smacks his lips together once and keeps staring at William.

“Come on,”

“I,” Brian stutters out, gasping as the hand slides down his cock.

The hand is slick? He hadn’t noticed the lube being opened. Brian squeezes his thighs trying to encourage the man to keep moving. To fuck him so he can get away from the confusing torrent of emotions.

“I do. Feels wonderful,” Brian whispers out.

William smiles and does the same trick with his thumb. His entire chest rattles with confusion. This is feeling too much like sex that he might have – sex that he would have when he isn’t an expensive fuck toy. Brian whimpers as the hand slides down and back between his cheeks.

“See? Relax.”

Brian lets his muscles ease up and he turns his head to the side again and closes his eyes against the London skyline. He can hear the faint patter of rain against the window as the first finger slides inside of him. Unsexy things fall into his head, but they are swept away quickly. Brian just doesn’t want this to feel like it is anything other than _just sex_.

He counts his breaths, which turns into counting how many times William pushes his single finger inside. It isn’t pleasurable, only a sensation. Brian always stretches himself because clients don’t usually care to do it themselves. Lately, they had, as though there is affection growing between them. He still does preps himself because he can’t imagine something tearing down there and then being forced to ride someone the very next night.

Brian sighs when a second finger is added, curling, and missing his prostate. His eyes stay closed. As the man gets bolder and surer. His moans start turning genuine, Brian doesn’t know how to handle that information. It is his body reacting to the stimulus and it isn’t because he is high out of his head.

“See?” William says again

He doesn’t, “yes. Yes. Yes. So good.”

As his voice goes high, William finally finds his prostate. Brian cries out, curling his toes and tightening around the finger. As the pleasure washes through him, feeding the coke in his brain, he holds back his sobs. He breathes through his nose and opens his eyes.

Through tears and rain, the lights on the London night look more like stars through a foggy telescope. He stares at them and watches them twinkle. Brian squints and he can make out tiny patterns, name the constellations.

A third finger gets added. He squeezes down and adds a moan as William teases his prostate. His confidence grows as Brian’s moans get louder. Brian’s cock weeps against his stomach and twitches with the pressure. Finally, William moves his hand from where it had been blocking Brian’s view of the sky and strokes his cock in time with the curls of his fingers.

Come splatters against his chest. Brian sobs out and moans and arches his back and everything else one does during an orgasm. He drops to the bed, panting heavily and groaning as he feels the stickiness on his stomach. When was the last time a client genuinely wrung an orgasm out of him?

He has come before, it is part of his job some nights, but this was a bone-aching, brain-fuzzing orgasm. Brian flicks his eyes to William who is wiping his hand on the bedsheet.

“Easy as that.”

“Easy,” Brian repeats.

“Going to fuck you now,” William says.

“Okay,” Brain replies, “please.”

Please, he thinks, please get this over with. Let this night end. Brian wants to forget. There is the crinkling of foil and he turns his head to his constellations again. He tries to map them out. Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Cygnus, and a blunt heat pauses at his entrance.

Brian lets out a tiny nod and then he feels the familiar ache as he is split wide. William isn’t impressive in length or girth, certainly above average, but not the biggest that Brian has ever had. He closes his eyes and tries to place him in the line of cocks that he has had in them. Brian ends up ranking him higher up than he would like.

This man with a face who isn’t just a cock and is tugging moans out of him because he is good at sex. He cares that Brian enjoys this and Brian hates it so much it makes him sick to his stomach. The only consolation that he gets is that it is too early for him to grow hard again, even with the help in his blood. Brian notes the ticking of the clock in the back of his head and he can feel the hold that the coke has on him loosen.

Brian wants William to finish before the drug wears off. If he does, there is a hope that this becomes another hazy memory in his brain and that he can make it another Bad Night.

He screams as his prostate is hit and then sobs as it is struck over and over and over again. Brian gaps and reaches up to grip William’s sleeves. It makes him instinctively tighten and roll back into his rhythm, remembering that he is here to be a good bedmate. Moans tumble out of William’s mouth as Brian becomes more active. They are suddenly flipped over, and William is sliding out of him.

Brian lines himself back up and starts bouncing. He closes his eyes and runs his hands down his thin frame. His fingers bump over his ribs, follow the groove of his taught core.

“Put some work in, dear,” William says, “earn your pay.”

He grinds down, “I’ll fuck you good if you don’t call me dear again.”

William shrugs, “works for me.”

He drops down and circles his hips, grinding his soft member against William before pushing himself up on shaking thighs. Brian tries to make the inconsistent pace feel deliberate. His focus is nonexistent, and his body is starting to shake too much for him to have control. He swallows the shiver and reaches down to play with a nipple.

When it doesn’t get much reaction, Brian drags his blunt nails down the side of William’s ribs. There is a spasm but still no reaction that would indicate pleasure. He tightens around the cock inside of him and arches his back, opening his mouth in a silent scream.

Hands wrap around his hips and pull him down to the base of the cock he is sitting on, but before he is lifted again. Brian doesn’t know how it feels good, being manhandled like this or what is so sexy about manhandling someone (he thinks about an old fantasy of pushing someone to the bed).

With a groan and a bruising grip, Brian feels the twitch inside of him that lets him know that William is coming. They tumble to the side, Brian helping to ease the cock out of him.

“So good,” William hums, “hope you’ll be ready again soon.”

Brian offers a weak acknowledgment, raising his hands and spreading his legs apart. It doesn’t hurt like it usually does, but he feels so much worse than it has ever made him feel before, even worse than the first time when he had been spitting out come because he couldn’t bring himself to swallow.

“Get on your knees.”

He slides off the bed. The plush carpet does nothing for the burn from his thighs, the muscle spasming from overuse. Brian stares past William to the window trying to force himself out of his head again. He remembers thinking that bad things were always meant to happen, he hadn’t been able to finish his thought.

Brian figures the Woman was murdered because she wasn’t mugged, and the Teen died because he didn’t steal, and the Businessman thought the way to fix things was to break it. Brian May was always going to end up drugged up and fucked out in a random hotel where the city lights looked like yellow and purple sunburst stars.

William slides further towards the edge of the bed and Brian opens his mouth. One last night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm. I'm sure this is all fine and dandy.
> 
> As always, please leave your thoughts and feelings below, or come talk to me on tumblr!!


	12. jump off a narrow ledge (to break these walls and make you reach)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnd we're back.  
> I keep delaying updates because I'm trying to figure something out about the story. Its finished! I just have to figure out how far we go into it? If that makes any sense?

The morning is muggy. It feels more like he is swimming through the air than walking. Water sticks to his skin like sweat but Brian knows that he shouldn’t be sweating a second after stepping outside. It isn’t hot, not yet, but it is hard to breathe.

His head aches and there is mild discomfort down his back and arse, but he doesn’t hurt. He rubs his wrists which have tiny rings of red around them from being held above his head as William kept him from touching. These marks probably won’t bruise, but it doesn’t matter because his neck and chest were covered in bites and scratches.

After William had pulled him off his cock, the roughness came. Brian had sighed in relief, able to start distancing himself from William and place him firmly as a client. Until William added in compliments with his degradation. Brian wasn’t just a slut, but a lovely one. He wasn’t simply a whore but a beautiful one.

It is almost a relief when he crawls into the back of the Towncar. The Driver must have just gotten out because he doesn’t have a single cigarette butt surrounding him. Brian rubs his wrist and then uses the heel of his hand to rub at his throbbing eye.

“Didn’t I tell you they would tip well?”

Brian has seven hundred pounds in his pocket for his silence. He had the reckless urge to toss the clip out of the window and tell everyone, but he had already accepted the money. As he settles in the seat his Handler snaps his finger and they start to drive.

He opens his mouth, staring at the profile of his Handler. Anger simmers low in his belly, dampened by cravings and acceptance. This man had been here the entire time and he wonders if he has any ounce of concern for him.

Probably not, Brian thinks.

It should be easy to quit. Neither of them owes the other anything. Brian wants out, he promised himself that this was the last night. He made enough money for the month. Money for the next _three_ months. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.

He coughs once, ignoring the pressure behind the top of his nose and closes his mouth. Brian closes his eyes, his head bouncing on the seat. The cut on the back of his head splits open and he doubles over. His Handler does nothing as he sits forward and presses his head against the back of the driver’s seat.

After a few seconds, the stabbing sensation ebbs away. He straightens himself up and rests his head against the cool glass. Traffic is building up quickly, they are in the heart of London and the morning rush is nearing.

Brian flicks his eyes over to his Handler, who is resting his chin on his palm as he stares out of the window. He grits his teeth. Hundreds of words fall to the tip of his tongue, but he keeps his mouth shut.

He will tell him when they are parked, and he is about to be safely on his way to his flat. They might just drop him in the middle of the city if he says anything now. Brian clearly remembers the fear that his Handler had summoned in him after he had taken drugs from _that_ Dealer.

The silent ride makes his head hurt even more and the rumble of the tires on the asphalt makes him whimper quietly into his hand as the noise digs into his brain. Brian bites down onto his palm wishing he had something to dull it.

He had been four days sober- _ish_ but the streak had been ruined last night. Brian needs to do something about this headache before he cries and possibly throws himself purposely down the steps to end the pain. Brian smacks his lips in anticipation. Last night was his last night.

The car slows down at its usual drop off. Brian lets out a long breath as the movement and noise cease, only for a consistent throbbing to make itself known behind his eyes. He pinches his nose, which sends a spark of pain to the base of his skull. As he takes a breath to gather his wits, he feels something brush his fingers.

Brian cracks open an eye and stares at his Handler who presses a folded piece of paper against his hand. Brian flips his palm over, closing around the date and time of his next client, before coughing to hide his gag.

“Good work tonight,” his Handler says.

He takes the dismissal and slides out of the car. The muggy air and building heat do nothing to stop him from feeling like shit. Brian bends down to peer through the open door, the words bouncing around in his skull. As he opens his mouth his Handler reaches over and shuts the door. It is the quickest they have left him. The tires of the car sticking to the slick pavement before squealing away.

Had they guessed he was going to quit? Brian looks down at his hand which is holding the piece of paper and then back as were the taillights of the car are turning the corner. His eyes tighten as the pounding grows more intense and he smacks his lips again eager for pain relief.

Brian tightens his hand over the piece of paper before shoving both hands into his pants pockets. The sweater he wore last night had been perfect for the late evening chill, but now in the early morning heat it plasters itself to his skin as he sweats.

His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth and he presses on through the sticky air, rushing to get back to his flat without appearing too eager. He can feel how his sweat is making the paper stick to his palm, and maybe making the ink bleed the ink. Erasing the date.

His stomach churns and rolls. As he tries to breathe, he feels something slip down the side of his cheeks. He laughs at himself for crying. He dashes his arm over his eyes and takes in a thick breath.

It takes only a few seconds for him to pull himself together again and he moves faster towards his flat.

Although he goes down the steps slower than his grandma, but he listens to his shoulder throbbing as reminder of his carelessness last time he used them. He doesn’t remember where he put his key, so he reaches into the top of the doorframe to pull out a key. It scratches the paint on the lock as he misses the keyhole.

Brian wraps his hand around his wrist, covering up the lightening red mark and steading it so that he can stick the key into the tumbler. However, it doesn’t turn, he rams his shoulder (ow, fuck why did he do that?) into the center of the door and tries it again. This time when he turns it, the key moves smoothly, and the door unlocks with a click. Brian yanks the key out and stumbles into his entryway, shutting the door behind him as he moves to his kitchen.

His mouth is impossibly dry and the dried sweat clinging to his skin is making him itchy. He groans and scratches at the back of his neck while he waits for the tap water to cool down. Brian fills his glass, water splashing over the side as he lifts it to his mouth.

It is half empty, but he chugs it and pushes it back underneath the tap. The pressure behind his nose finally breaks and blood slips down his face. He rubs his sleeve over it, uncaring that he is ruining his sweater, he was going to throw it away. Memories of last night are clinging to it like a wine stain. Something shockingly cold hits his fingertips and he startles only to realize that it had been the water overflowing.

Brian drops the glass as he pulls away and it falls into the sink and shatters. He slides to the ground with the rattling of the glass shards. His air leaves him as he hits the cool tile, and he gasps trying to get it back. The rattling of the glass grows louder, and he hears the water rushing past his ears. Brian’s hands shake and he digs them into the back of his head trying to stop them from shaking.

One of his nails digs into the scab. He hisses and spreads his legs so he can rest his elbows on his knees. The white tile is quickly dotted with red from his nose. Brian gasps for air, but only manages a wheeze so he keeps trying to suck in more air. It doesn’t seem to work. The water gets louder, but the glass has stopped rattling but now all he can hear is the sound it made as it shattered.

The dots swirl on the ground and he digs his fingers deeper in trying to stop this. Trying to breathe. God, he just wants to breathe. His fingers feel wet and he tries to focus on them, but another surge of panic makes him lose the breath that he is holding, and it leaves his body in a rush.

Brian kicks off his shoes, trying to get out of his clothes, which are starting to rub harshly on his skin, leaving it raw. He can feel where his clothes touch the spots that William had left marks on and he is ripping his hands out of his hair, getting tangled in the curls as he scrambles to get the ruined shirt off his body and away from the touch.

He wants to stop being touched. By people, by water, by everything. He wants to breathe, and he wants to stop thinking and a not small part of his brain wants him to stop breathing. Brian bites down on his lip as he struggles to keep his meager air in his lungs and the bows over further, his elbow slipping in the blood.

It is sticky. His body feels like it is on fire now, too. It had been wet before. The water is still running, running past him and away. He should turn it off. It is too loud. Another glass has broken. He hears it. So loud. The shards are in his brain. Brian slowly spreads out on the floor. His chest twitching with the need to breathe.

He lays on his back. His thumbs digging into the soft flesh of his cheeks as he spreads his fingers over his eyes to block out some of the light. There is sunlight that is streaming over his belly, almost illuminating the marks.

He struggles to count to ten, but the thought of the breaking of the glass and the running of water is in his head. It is hard to focus. Every time he forgets the next number he restarts.

Slowly he gets the pattern. One. In. Two. Hold. Three. Hold. Four. Out.

His breathing evens out and he can take slower breaths that stick to his lungs. His body feels strange. He might liken it to an orgasm, but no guilt or pleasure is filling in the space that the orgasm leaves behind. It is heavy but it leaves him with nothing.

His hands are shaking above his face. Brian peels them away. There are crescent marks on his face from his thumbnails that he can feel. As he puts his elbows behind him he pushes up, trying to gather information. His focus slips in his head as sand does through open fingers.

The light that had been on his stomach is on his cabinet now. He stares at it in wonder, his brain slowly digging around for what that means. Brian pushes himself onto his feet and he lets out a long breath. His body is shaking, he feels it in his core as he grabs onto the counter.

He slams his fist on the tap to cut out the sound of the water. At least he hadn’t had the plug in. With the water off his flat is too quiet. Brian steadies himself with a hand on the counter and then the wall as he forces himself to take one step at a time. It feels like he must think about how each muscle moves to even lift his leg and set it back down.

While he knows how he got to his bedroom, Brian remembers nothing but the exhaustion with each step. His hands are hovering over the nightstand drawer and he looks at his calendar with the four dots and he thinks about William touching him like a lover and how Brian let him and then even though he swore that last night was his last night that he couldn’t quit.

Two words – “I quit” – are beyond his power and then there was whatever the fuck happened in the kitchen. It felt like he was stuck and drowning on land.

There aren’t many thoughts his tired brain can scrape together even as he eyes the nightstand. The urge to take more than he has done in the past is like dancing lights in his brain. He needs it again, and if it doesn’t kill him then he can figure out where he goes from here.

He is a weak, weak man, and he pulls open the drawer.

* * *

Brian uses what is left of the foggy energy from the cocaine to sit down at his desk and pick up a pen to finally work on the applications that had been sitting there for days. His hand moves like it is shaking off rust, the gears in his head creaking. He takes the most care with the application for Veronica’s school, printing it as neatly as his shaky hands will allow.

He reads a question about why he is seeking employment and an answer doesn’t come to him. Brian doesn’t know how to word that he wants a new job because he wants to stop fucking strangers for money. Instead, he writes something about a passion for teaching, which isn’t a lie. He used to love teaching before his advisor got his position cut. Brian has never hated Brevik, but sometimes when he thinks about the man there is a deep resentment in his heart that matches the buzzing in his head. He doesn’t want to hate the man, but Brian can easily trace where his life got off track to that point.

His stomach spasms and he groans. He drops the pen to the side of the paper hopefully avoiding the tip colliding on the application. A stray mark wouldn’t be the worse thing, but Brian has always loved papers that are pristine with only the content on it.

Brian doubles over with another cramp and he rolls his forehead on the desk and breaths through his nose before pushing away from the desk and wandering to his bed where he can curl up and wrap his arms around his stomach easily. He grits his teeth and forces his breathing to be even and steady.

Once it passes, he closes his eyes and takes deep breaths. It is strange, that he can feel the switch in his brain switch so easily. He is no longer coming down but crashing and tears spring to his eyes. A fog settles over his thoughts like a blanket and he lets it drop over him.

Brian knows he won’t be able to sleep. His lips smack together, and he licks his cracked lips and thinks about keeping the high just a little longer. Brian has truthfully lost track of time, binging on drugs, and only marking time by the plastic baggies scattered around his floor.

He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling unsure of what he should do. Brian had promised himself that he was going to stop. There is a completed application on his desk. Whatever time his next client is, he has no clue because he hadn’t read it and when he glanced at it, the ink had run smearing the date.

It is a sign. If he doesn’t know when his client is then he doesn’t need to go out again to his Handler. Brian sighs, he could be done. But to be done, in his mind, he needs to stop the drug.

Brian lets out a wheezy laugh, pushing himself from the bed. His feet hit the ground and he almost loses the will to stand back up, but he does. He grabs the tin, which is nearly empty. Brian grimaces looking down at the bags that had been emptied on the floor.

His hand tightens around the tin and he tosses it in the back of his closet, hoping that clothes will eventually bury it and the energy it would take to find it would sway him away from taking it. Brian doubts that is what will happen. But if he kept it in his nightstand he would get nowhere.

The four dots he had managed taunt him. Brian knows that he can do this again and that he can be completely sober, not cheating by using the less effective method of running a coated finger over his gums. He wonders if his gums would bleed as his nose does.

Brian rubs the bridge of his nose before collapsing back onto the bed; satisfied that he won’t remember what he did with the tin when he wakes up. He pulls the duvet over him and he counts his breaths. Several seconds pass and he is still aware of the scratchy blankets. So he tries to count his heartbeats, fast enough that he stumbles over the numbers. He curls his fingers in the pillowcase and closes his eyes. Sleep, Brian thinks, sleep. Sleep. Go to sleep.

He doesn’t know that it works but awareness hits him like a lightning bolt. Energy surges through his body as he pushes himself out of bed and paces nervously. He doesn’t know what to do with it. For a moment, he thinks about cleaning the baggies off the floor, but he stops. His fists tighten, his fingernails digging into his palm as he tries to shake the energy out.

He should probably go back to laying in his bed. Go back trying to sleep – go back to sleep? This energy is raw and dangerous. He doesn’t like how it feels. It doesn’t have a target and Brian doesn’t know how to direct it.

This is a proper crash. He can feel the drug slipping through his blood and pooling somewhere. The spiderwebs that it weaves in his brain are breaking. Brian rolls onto his heels trying to funnel the energy. He spins around his room and still there is nothing.

Brian feels himself start to shake and he grabs the cover from his bed, and he rips it off. He yanks the sheets and the fitted sheets off. Seams pop in warning. He dumps the pillows out of their pillowcase and tosses them to the ground. The destruction is a funnel, and he has hazy memories of doing this while high, but once the bed is demolished, he turns to his closet.

The clothes that he has worn to work get ripped from hangers. Some break with the force that he uses and he tosses them to the back where he can feel the taunting gaze of the tin. He needs to bury it with clothes and broken hangers. Needs to hide it. Pieces of hangers scatter around him the more frantic he attacks his closet.

When the feeling passes, he sags to the floor. His body feeling like the puppet he saw get its strings cut mid performance. His once full closet contains now a few white pressed shirts and some of his better trousers still hang. Plenty of bright and soft fabrics remain, but those are ones that had originally belonged to his bandmates.

Brian snaps his jaw shut as he takes the patterned clothes and tosses them away into the hallway. He doesn’t want to see them. The band hadn’t wanted to see him either. From the hallway, he doesn’t know where to take them. They’re out of his sight at least, - they aren’t in his closet.

He pushes himself away from his closet. His heels digging into the shag carpet. Brian keeps backpedaling until his back hits his bed. Then he awkwardly clamors back onto his uncovered mattress.

Brian closes his eyes trying to stop the hands from his mind crawling and grabbing onto him. He tries to pull away from them. A traitorous part of his mind telling him that there is a way he can get the hands away.

“No!” Brian shouts.

The word is strange on his tongue. He presses it to the top of his mouth and breathes quickly.

“No,” he says again.

He still feels the hands. One goes around his jaw and another around his throat. Brian gasps and tries to pull away. It isn’t hard to place a face with this one. Sunglasses are neatly tucked into the pocket and he is starting into cold brown eyes. Thank god they’re the wrong shade of brown.

Brian throws his head to the side not wanting to give in to the phantom touches. He doesn’t need the appointment card…he could wait for the Driver every night. Brian trembles.

This is his chance; he doesn’t know why he feels like he wants to go back. It isn’t safe, it isn’t secure. There is money in it, but he hates it. He hates knowing the streets at night.

Brian pushes himself from the bed and out of his destroyed bedroom. He charges into his kitchen and turns his head, making sure that no hands are reaching for him from behind. There are signs of what happened a few days ago, Brian feels like it has been days, but he doesn’t know.

A few drops of dried blood stick out on the tile. The glass is still broken in the sink, but the water is off. Brian turns and goes out of the room and to the living room. He finds a bare corner and wedges himself in it.

There are nothing but memories in this room. The cravings are weaker here, even as his brain tells him that there is a way to stop this feeling. He doesn’t know that quitting cold like this is a good idea if the crash is so bad.

But he has to quit like this. He isn’t strong enough to slowly cut away the haze.

He needs someone, but Brian looks around his empty house and realizes that the people he had are long gone. They had told him to figure himself out, but Brian doesn’t know that he has the tools to _do_ that.

“I need to stop,” he whispers, hoping that saying it will make it more real, “I need to stop.”

Brian likes how the word coats his tongue. Stop. Stop. Stop. Something he hasn’t said in so long. He runs his hands through his hair, wincing at the greasy and matted strands. He feels a sticky spot and he wonders how badly he set back the healing on the cut.

The pain is real. The realest thing in his flat. He loves the feeling of the pain being real. Brian presses his fingers against it again before removing his hands from his hair and pinching at the skin on his wrist. The pain is calming down the frantic energy. It is real and he can focus on it.

Brian pinches harder. He doesn’t break the skin. He breathes out every time he lets go and slowly he eases through the crash every time he feels the urge to get up and stop the crash and go back to that delicious euphoria he reaches up and pinches a bruise on his neck. A bruise that he never wanted there.

Being alone is something that he has gotten used. It was how he was used to feeling before he gave himself to music. Brian closes his eyes. This is something he can work with. Now, he can figure himself out and then he can go back to the band and pretend like nothing has happened. Pretend that it was just a bad few months. He can pretend like once he is out of this life it will never bother him again.

* * *

Brian has nine dots on his calendar. The four from before, and five more from his last binge. He fights the cravings, which crawl down his back and into his lungs and he _finally_ understands why Roger and Freddie don’t have the desire to stop smoking. It is hard and it _hurts_.

He has never had cravings like this. Every morning since swearing he would stop, cocaine is the first thing he thinks about. Brian thinks about how it would be so easy go back to it and get back the energy that is being sapped from him. He doesn’t know if it is from fighting the cravings or it is what his body used to feel like.

This exhaustion is deep. It takes over his body, mind, and soul. His hands don’t stop shaking. Every time he holds something, he fears that he will drop it.

Brian takes a sip of water from a plastic cup as he breathes through his nose. The sun hasn’t risen yet, far too early for respectable people to be awake. He spreads his toes on the tile floor trying to focus on it.

This dream had been the worst. He had been in the alley. The cold air of winter and the wet chill of the snow feeling like old friends as he is forced on the ground. He doesn’t know how many hands had been on him, maybe it was all of them. He could taste the stink of the alley as a faceless man shoved his cock down Brian’s throat.

He looks up and he doesn’t know the man, but he sees the rings of white around his nose. It looks like powdered sugar. Brian wants to rub his finger over it and taste, but he can’t move. His wrists are held down by hands and his legs are spread wide and he feels like he is waiting for someone.

Brian drops the cup, and it pushes the too vivid dream out of his head. He used to be able to sleep without remembering his dreams, even if they left him tired and confused. They never lingered. The dreams never kept following him through his every waking moment. His hands shake harder as he tries to fight those touches away and he turns on the water. The running water is real, and he lets out staccato breaths trying to focus and bring himself back into this world.

It takes five minutes, he guesses because the clock long since running out of battery and he can’t clasp his watch to his wrist, but the hands are shoved back into the poorly shut box in the back of his head. Brian drops the cup into the sink, now clear of the shattered glass. For days the shards had glittered in the lowlight and Brian could do nothing to stop their taunting.

He paces around his kitchen before wandering into his living room. The energy flooding his system is tainted and he doesn’t want to be haunted by memories in his sleep again. He has gotten used to entertaining himself for hours at a time by doing nothing. Ages ago he used to be able to focus on heavy texts and playing guitar for hours at a time. Now he can barely remember what he has done before the thought is switching to another.

“A walk,” he murmurs to the dead plant on the table.

He finally brought it inside, but it was far past saving. Maybe he could glue the cracks and paint over them, but for now, it leaks dirt onto the white title.

“I’ll go for a walk and then I’ll come back and sleep and tomorrow – tomorrow will be the day.”

Brian doesn’t know if the plant or Red believes him, but Brian must hope that each morning is the one where he will wake up craving and tremor free.

His clogs are by the front door and he pulls on a light jumper, unsure of the weather. Brian stares at his keys before shaking his head. He will not need them for a short stroll around the block. There won’t be anyone out this late to see him leave. His guitar is the only thing valuable in his flat anymore, and to the average pawnshop or musician, she is only worth the cost of wood, he supposes. 

Brian sticks his hands deep in his pockets, to hide their trembling. Then takes a deep breath before reaching out with a shaky hand to pull open the door. His heart bubbles in anticipation. He doesn’t know what is lurking in the night, but someone always is.

There is a man standing in front of his door with his hand raised as though he was planning to knock. They stare at each other and Brian’s brain numbly reminds him that this is the Driver.

There is another man on top of his steps, smoking. Brian swallows and reaches to shut the door, hoping that he had just fallen asleep and this is another dream. The iron grip on his arm, as the Driver grabs him, reminds him that he is awake, and he squeaks.

“Come with us.”

Brian clicks his teeth together. He does not have much of a choice, he couldn’t break this grip before he let this life and drug drain him of his strength and will. His clogs clack against the steps as he trips over them and is sent tumbling into the side of the car. A tiny stab of pain jolts up his arms from the force of catching himself and is knee strikes the wheel well.

He looks around and thinks about yelling. The Driver moves around him and opens the door, gesturing for Brian to get inside. Brian grabs at the lint in his pocket before the second man nudges him sharply in the center of his back. It doesn’t feel like a hand and he decides he doesn’t want to know what has touched him. Still he has a moment where he thinks about saying no. Another nudge has him meekly crawling into the empty backseat. He wishes he wasn’t sober to meet whatever fate will greet him tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please leave your thoughts and comments below or come talk to me on tumblr!

**Author's Note:**

> Poor Brian 
> 
> As always, please leave your thoughts and comments below or come talk to me on tumblr!!


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